Sherlock Scout the Defective Detective
by Maggot Magnet
Summary: RED finds out Sniper's biggest secret, all thanks to a media-influenced young Bostonian and his muffly arsonist buddy.
1. The Brilliant Idea

_A little trickle of after-writing discovery by the author;_  
_  
Hoo-wee, would ya look at HAT. There's actually, for once, hats involved in a TF2 story. And I am proud, friends. So proud.  
__  
Anyways, I tried extra-double hard on this story because I wanted to prove to myself that I could DO IT, MAGGOT.  
So enjoy, and don't be 'fraid to tell me what worked and didn't work in the reviews.  
Thanks a bunch, people!_

* * *

It began in the recreation room one _NBC Monday Movie_ morning, just like any other ceasefire week would. And, of course, our favorite young troublemaker's hiney was seated on the sofa with a popcorn bag on his lap and IQ dropping with every second. Good morning, Scout.

The screen was dimmed with eerie gray smoke-machine smoke, and Scout nearly bit his own fingers off at the suspense. Another hand digging into the popcorn bag he had all to himself didn't ease the suspense-movie aroma. Scout was sure to grind his teeth carefully on the meant-for-movie snack for the remainder of the thriller so he wouldn't miss any more major plot points. It's not too far off to say the movie was cornier than the crunchy plastic ripoffs they bought at the local gas station.

"This is_ hopeless, _Holmes," muttered Watson through his poofy little mustache, cane clanking with every step. "I mean, if Jack the Ripper was ten feet away we wouldn't see him."

Scout's eyes grew wide and he was a gasp away from inhaling an unhealthy mound of popcorn to clog his esophagus. As always, however, he missed the logic of the fact that this part wasn't supposed to be suspenseful at all. "IF DERE'S A_ MURDERER_ ON DA LOOSE YA DON'T JUST STAND AROUND OUTSIDE IN DA_ DARK,_ YA DUMB_ DICKOS!_"

Sherlock had already begun his first sentence in the scene, but Scout had missed its frontal portion. It didn't matter all that much to him anyhow, because he knew that the man always said something too smart for Scout to understand. "...is what the jungle is to the tiger, Watson. Inconceivable at all until he pounces, and if he is ever to, only to his victims."

I think it's quite obvious that Scout didn't get a single word of that.

Yet Sherlock's deerstalker mesmerized him to the point in which nothing mattered except a sentence uttered to express how in awe one must be about the fictitious character. Scout was one of those people with the amazing talent of chewing popcorn and missing the meaning of the movie completely at the same time; "Holy_ crapbaskets._ Holy_ muffinjunk._ Holy_ hoo-balls._ I_ want_ his fuckin'_ hat._"

The scene went on with a dash of unnecessary dialogue from Sherlock. "We must continue," said the Englishman to his lesser counterpart. "Jack the Ripper will not allow conditions such as these to go unused." One must agree, for the stage looked pretty scary right then.

Watson whirled his head around. Scout squeaked just in case.

Sherlock wended his way into the distance. "He's out now, Watson." Together the 1800s heros strutted out into the gray light, church bells chiming in the distance of the film. Slowly they evaporated into the London fog.

"Sherlick,_ please_ don't die," prayed Scout aloud with an embarrassingly off pronunciation, for someone with such a masterpiece of a headwear item deserves to be immortal. Of course, his wish was granted, for on the absurd instance that the main character was to be killed right then and there then one could clearly foresee that the ratings wouldn't be too high. (Unless it's _Psycho! _Dear god, Scout could gush on about that one until the end of time.)

Fade to black. In turn, minimal light arose back into the shot; night, as it was suggested. A pale-skinned woman with baggy eyes and messy blonde hair appeared onscreen, leaning out of a window with skanky dress out for all to see. "'Ello lad. Ee, ye lo'k like a sport, ya fancy comin' up?"

Only a few seconds into her sentence and her accent was already classified; "Yo, she sounds like a girl version a' Demoman." After a short and nonsensical moment of consideration, a conclusion had been formed. "Nah. Screw it, she's still hot."

It was heavily implied that she was a prostitute, but Scout clearly did not find meaning in why she was inviting a random person upstairs. The woman grinned wearily and looked down at the off-screen man, murmuring a Demo-sounding whore offer; "Hang on a min'it, I'll throw ye da'n a key." She reached into the room for a second, and then turned back to the window. An arm extended to toss the trinket down. "E'e ye go, darlin'. Catch." The metal hit the floor of the street with a rattly clang.

"What a stupid woman," scoffed Scout. "She might get raped or somethin'."

A gloved hand with_ ripped _fingers – hint, hint – grabbed the key and brought it to unlatch the door. The camera, whose viewpoint was in first-person, did not show the appearance of the man nor did the crackly speakers on the side of the television amplify any hint of his voice. One must _really_ wonder _why. _

Soon enough, the drift was caught, though a normally educated person would already have predicted the outcome as soon as the scene had begun. In realization, Scout leaped against the sofa and half the popcorn flew out of the bag like buttery confetti. "OH MY GOD, IT'S THE KILLER DUDE!_ JACK_ DA_ RIPPAH!_ JACK DA RIPPAH IS GONNA_ KILL_ DA_ HOT _LADY!"

Music began to trill as the door squeaked open to reveal the prostitute leaning over the stair's banister. "Mind ye shut th' door behind ya, lad?" The door was shut in wordless response. Low violins hummed to set the murderous mood.

"OH MY GOD,_ OH_ MY_ GOD,_ SHE'S GONNA_ DIE!_ RUN, YOU RETARD,_ RUN!_" screeched Scout as if the scriptwriters could drop the whole thing on the spot and cater to his exact viewer-perspective needs.

A friendly voice behind Scout startled him. "Howdy there, boy, what'cha watchin'?"

Scout swerved his head around angrily to notice an interrupting Engineer leaning against the sofa with a soft smile.

"GO AWAY! GO_ AWAY!_" commanded the young man, an absent hand that swatted the Texan away showing Scout was trying to keep at least one eye on the television. "I'M AT DA SCARY PART!"

The friendliness he offered was completely spit on by Scout, just like the dumpling Heavy had made with all of his Russian heart for yesterday's dinner. "Oh, er, sorry."

In horrendous forthwith, a sight almost offered a heart attack to poor Engineer as he looked beyond the sofa and gaped at the horror. "Woah! Oh mah_ god!"_ If goggles could pop off one's head and fly to the ceiling in astonished terror, Engineer would, to his disparage, lose his sturdiest pair. "What's_ all_ that_ popcorn_ Ah made doin' on the_ floor _there? Clean that up, would ya? That there is one big mess, mister."

Though the woman on screen was clearly continuing on with her lines, her voice did not reach the ears of the Bostonian observer as did the kind ramblings of his Southern teammate. Scout went into a rampage, for he missed more lines of a mystery movie in which every word mattered. It would be much preferred if Scout had said this in a polite way, but people are people; "LAY OFF AN' SHUT YER TRAP, Y'OLD _SNOOZE!_ I'M TRYIN' TA WATCH THIS LADY_ SAY _STUFF!"

Engineer winced and considered apologizing again, but then decided against it.

In the aftermath of the piss-Engy-off-and-get-no-valid-response equation, the Texan brought it upon himself to accompany Scout in watching a few minutes of the thriller, but during every section of the movie Scout would make a negative comment about the actor's appearance or their British accents or their lack of proper 'swag'. It was then time for Engineer to leave the fellow RED alone with his TV movie, going by the unimaginative excuse of 'Nah, don't wanna fuss ya, I ain't really into them thriller-mystery things all that much, anyhow.'

Scout sat through_ A Study In Terror_ all by himself until the very last name was scrolled by in the credits, at which point he began clapping and hooting and making an enormous deal for it was the best movie he had seen that day. "OH YEAH, THAT MOVIE WAS_ BOSS!_ WOO! WOO-HOO-HOO-_HOO_!"

* * *

As with all other media, movies can provide a good source of inspiration for young dreamers.

That's why the first thing Scout did after leaving the television room without cleaning up the popcorn was dash straight to his buddy's room and nearly drill the door in with both fists banging. "Yo, Py-Py! Let me_ in_, bro!"

A moment was spent with Scout standing by the door, not understanding why the wood wasn't flinging open. Utter silence other than the striped sneaker tapping on the floor in impatience.

Comprehension sprung to him as he realized he failed to recite their super-secret password. It was then shouted to the hallway, which is probably not a very good method of concealing secrecy; "THE SUPER SECRET PASSWORD IS 'MICKEY MANTLE UNICORN POOP 69 HEAVY IS A JIGGLY PUFFBALL'!"

"Hmmg hmn, mhn shmmdhm!" called Scout's arsonist pal. After a moment, Pyro appeared at the door. "Whmm'sh mmp, brmh?"

Cue handshake. Scout brought his fist forward to collide against his friend's glove, and as soon as their knuckles met they performed their personalized ritual.

Though imperceptible by the human eye, it was choreographed in such a manner that if someone had been passing down by them they could have sworn they saw hands that could have seizures. Hands flew as if in hurricanes. Wrists spun like screwdrivers. Knuckles cracked and fingers literally unhinged. Eventually yet consequently, those fifteen minutes passed and the friendly-gesture-gone-wild came to a halt. (Consider this description abridged, for one could compose an entire novelization based solely on their hand movements. Sadly, it would have more plot than this nonsense.)

"So listen, dude," began Scout, eyes sparkling with the airborne idea that has just plunged through his ears and into his temporal lobe like a malfunctioning Q-tip. "I was thinkin'. An' den, like, I thought a somethin'. A_ real_ epic idea. An' you know_ me_, pally, and I_ always_ have da_ epicest_ ideas, haw haw! Ya know ya want me, Pyro, it's true. Dat's 'cause ladies_ love_ me. It's not_ my_ fuckin' fault I'm so _han'some_.

"Ac'chally...I think it's 'cause a' DNA. Just, like, ta be honest.

"But dey don't know dat. Dey're_ jealous._ E'ryone is jus'_ jealous,_ especially my dumbass big ol' bruddas I hate. I do_ too_ have a sexy nose and I ain't even a skinny prick who's 'obsessed wit useless baseball junk and runs all day' at_ all! _Ma says I ain't. And Ma knows more than dem bitch-ass-niggahs, that's why."

Scout shook his head at the lack of logic. Only after that point was enforced with solid parental backup, it was time to get back on track. "Yeah, so wait. I was tellin' ya about my idea. 'Kay, so, it's, like, a mystery case we gotta solve, 'kay? It's gonna be our first case_ ever!_ You excited? I'm_ mad _excited! Guess what case it's gonna be about?"

Finally, an answer was expected from Pyro. It was done minimally to create a social equilibrium; "Mm?"

The Bostonian made something up on the spot. "I think..." Victim acquired; "...Snipah's..." He declared his judgment with a face so stone-cold one could have already used it as evidence. "Pyro, I think Snipah's a_ liar!_"

A cock of Pyro's mask at the sudden accusation showed as a vast array of confusion towards the subject.  
"Shmmpr'sh mm lmmrh? Hmh?"

"Yeah, e_'zactly!_" Scout grinned. "And so we're gonna be detectives and figure out why he is. And, uh, what he's even lyin' about. But if we gotta be detectives, then..." He brought a gauze-wrapped palm to the top of his head and tossed the baseball cap somewhere into his friend's room. Baseball Bill's Sports Shine at the top of his head made the next sentence obvious; "We...

"...need..."

Drumroll, please. "..._HATS!_"

"Whmm kmmnd mfh hmtsh?" Specificity was a virtue.

"Um. Maybe...like, like a Sherlick Homes hat thingy. Ya know what I'm talkin' 'bout, right? Da legit floppy one." Scout pantomimed the little flaps flopping about with his hands. "With the two little ears in the front and back, kinda."

"Mhm!" Pyro nodded ecstatically, as if deep in the Optical Lens mask was the knowledge of where to get just the thing. Pointing toward the medical office on the side of their hallway, a sentence was the giveaway of where such a hat was previously seen. "Mh knmmh! Mmdhc'sh mffhcsh!"

Their nosiness would know no bounds.

* * *

By now I am sure the late Sir Conan Doyle is off creating earthquakes in Minstead. Rolling in one's grave to such an extent probably isn't benefiting the environment. So, so sorry, Doyle.

(That apology is figuratively directed from Scout. He's deeply regretful with every last inch of his heart.)

...okay, okay, so you caught my fib there. No, friends, Scout didn't_ really _apologize afterwards and he actually didn't give two iotas for any writer other than the authors of those baseball biography books he collects in a pile under his bed. With that tidbit that shows a lot about his intellect, I'd say the young man probably _still_ doesn't even know that Holmes didn't originate in a badly-staged movie shown once on mainstream television.

You know, it had been quite the situation, really. Borderline ridiculous, if I'm to say.

And poor Sniper; you'll soon find out the social abuse he'll recieve as the story goes on.

It really goes to show that pride-n'-prejudice when judging a friend and/or team pervert can lead to things spinning out of control before you're even assured they're correct. It was a pretty embarrassing mistake for the whole team to make, but _eh. _Because no one feels bad for Sniper, am I right? (Yes, I am right. Stop crying.)

Why don't you sit back and relax your thinking muscles, dear reader? (And dry your tears of Aussie-pity.) Chapter by chapter we'll delve into this mess. And believe me on this one; there's not going to be a whole lot of thinking involved.


	2. The Brilliant Hat Theft

_This chapter could not have been done without a band of faithful buddies.  
_  
_Here's to my beta, KingdomofThomond, who made the first chapter a million times better. I'd learned my flowing-lesson from then on._  
_Secondly, thank you to my dear Raven, who called me a traitor for posting a fanfiction before she knew about it. Wowlo. You're a great Oerson._  
_ChaCha, my dear...just...just let me love you. (And maybe other illegal things.)_  
_And, last but not least, thanks to my reviewers Jinny (whom this chapter is dedicated to because I can), Mattsykun (please granted, dear sir), Siberian Tiger (meow meow), a very giggly anon, and my ever-surprised Rarshy._

_Thanks, people! Have fun._

* * *

After using a little revision fast-forward, Scout and Pyro huddled together outside the swinging doors of the medical office, knowing that somewhere in there was a Medic, and somewhere in there also was...

A_ hat._

And they_ needed _that hat, or else the mystery of why Sniper was a liar would never be solved.

"Now ya gotta be_ super-_dee-_duper _quiet if ya wanna get it," whispered Scout, looking over to his masked friend in hoped allegiance. "A'ight? Repeat aftah me. Super."

"Shmprh."

"Dee-duper."

"Dmh-dhmprh."

"Quiet."

"Qumth."

With that little audible promise, Scout slowly creaked open the door and stuck his head through the little gap that was formed. To their surprise, it was completely dark. The crack of light from the hallway made a white stripe on the tile floor. Lack of German paper-scribbling due to the empty table meant only one thing; Medic was most likely...

_Somewhere else.  
_  
Sneaking still had to be done for the fun of it, however.

Pyro nudged the Bostonian with a rubbery elbow. "Msh thmm cmmsht clmmr?"

"Uh-huh." Scout fully opened the door and tiptoed down onto the floor with sneaky sneakers. "Coast is clear, pally."

The not-stealthy-but-trying pair stuck to the wall in the dark, with the only sound being the occasional dove's coo-like snore and – to Scout's annoyance – worried huffs from Pyro's mask.

Scout looked over in the dark with a frown. "Stop breathin' so freakin' loud!" he hissed.

Pyro angrily poked him in the ribs.

"_YOWCH!_" screamed Scout.

"SHMM MMP!"

Scout's volume dropped back to a zero-point-one. "Up yours, wacko."

They crept through the room on the tips of their toes like prehistoric ballerinas, ruining their eyesight in the lack of lighted lamps. Soon enough Pyro scampered over somewhere and the sound of felt dropping upon rubber sealed the first mission. A little song rang out as the hat appeared in Pyro's gloves; "_Tmmh-dmmh!_"

"YAY!" screamed Scout, achievement unlocked. "WE DID IT, PALLY! SURE GOOD THING DOC ISN'T HERE, BECAUSE THEN HE'D FIND OUT WE STOLED HIS HAT. I SURE AM GLAD. HE'S DUMB AN' OLD."

Suddenly, lights flooded the room and a torrent of doves flapped their wings and cooed off-n'-away at the sudden awakening. "Hallo? Who's in heah?" asked a familiar German voice from afar. Soon enough Medic's boot clacks neared over to them and he stood before the detectives with a smirk of confusion.

"Oh, it's just za two team idiots." Medic's nose twitched up in a skeptical grimace. "Yah should haf at least turned on za lights or somezing."

Scout and Pyro had no idea how to respond, so they didn't.

Medic looked over at Pyro with a squint. Seconds later speckled-gray eyebrows shot up in unison. "Ach, mein hat is in you'ah hands, Pyro. Vhat's za story?"

Pyro swerved the mask down as if to check if the hat had disappeared by now, but, sadly enough, it remained intact. "MMNH, _FMMK!_"

Scout thought incredibly fast, leaping in front of his pal in hopes of saving Pyro's life. Words flew out of his mouth at the rate of the porous sweat glands that made a miniature sprinkler out of his forehead. "WHAT HAT? I DON'T KNOW ANY HAT! I SWEAR ON _JESUS!_ I DON'T KNOW WHAT WE DID! LEAVE US ALONE! EXPLAIN WHAT WE DID. WHAT GIVES, MAN? I AIN'T EVEN YER FRIEND, YA KNOW DAT? SCREW OFF! YER JUST GRUMPY 'CAUSE YER OLD AND A _NERD!_"

Suddenly the situation seemed increasingly clear. Medic sighed, rolling his eyes at the silly REDs. "Seriouzly. If you vanted to borrow za hat you could haf just asked."

This required a tiny edit of their current scenario. Take two – Scout had straightened his posture and coughed twice in introductory conduct; "Yo, Medic. How's it goin'? Good weather over here, 'uh. I like yer glasses."

Scout smiled. "So, fag, can we borrow your fuckin' hat or _not?"_

Politeness fell aside. Instead a very sarcastic remark at the lack of valid syntax gushed through Medic's grin. "Hmm, I don't_ know,_ Herr Scout." He leaned over playfully like a schoolteacher, arms crossed behind his back. Eyes squinted into slits before the elongated grammar notice; "_Caaaaaaan _you?"

Sometimes it'll leave everyone better off if one chooses not to attempt educating a Bostonian with daddy issues. Scout met eyes with Medic, face casual as if he had an honest reply. Scout was a diss-dictionary, so it wasn't a good idea to fool around with the _master._"I dunno if I can, Doc. But I know I can KICK YOU IN DA BALLS SO HARD DEY'LL POP OUTTA YER FUCKIN' MOUTH, YOU UGLY HOEBAG."

"Zat's not physically possible," murmured Medic under his breath, his yet-to-be-redeemed-again medical license proving he was aware of all the things one could accomplish with scrota. He sniffed, raising a red rubber glove to straighten the crooked glasses perched upon his nose. "But you_ may _borrow mein hat."

He then strutted out of his office to leave the two alone with the deerstalker on the marble counter-top that seemed to be of great interest to them. "Dummkopfs!" The distant sound of doors slamming against each other had made Medic's haughtiness quite apparent.

Pyro threw the Private Eye atop the mask. Though scarcely intelligible, the muffled voice called behind the closed door; "Thmmksh, Mdhmc!"

"Yo, yo, yo,_ time out!_" cried Scout, turning to his fiery friend. "_I'm _Sherlick!"

"Mnh-_mnh!_" disagreed the smarter of the two. "Yhmm're_ Wtshmn!_"

"Suck a dick,_ Py-face!_" retorted Scout in the most immature way possible. "_I_ should be Sherlick 'cause you didn't even_ watch_ the movie, and also Watsin is_ always _fatter than Homes. You can even look it up if you want, 'cause I bet you Watsin is always a fatty-fat fat-ball all ovah da place."

Pyro grunted and handed over the hat. "Whmthvhrh."

Detective Scout adjusted the hat with a grin, proud that he was now a true Englishman. "Yeah, well, I have a hat that's sorta like Watsin-style and you can wear it if you want," assured Scout. "Don't be a hater, dude."

Pyro's mask hung low. The poor thing.

Scout frowned. "Fuckin' get over it already."

And so it was. "HMM-RMMH FMRH HMTSH!" cheered Pyro, skipping out of the office to receive a very-own Watson hat.


	3. The Brilliant Interrogation

_Holy poo, you guise.  
So many reviews and it's only the third chapter.  
Yipee-keeyay! c:  
_

_A PERSONAL RESPONSE TO ALL YOU SEXY PEOPLE (IN TIME ORDER)_

Chaos - I'm probably going to jail for even thinking of these things. :) You get all the bitches, too. Hawt thang.  
Raven - Don't ya dayurr tell Ah-reeeeen c: ahyup  
Shadow of Crabs - Aww, that means a lot. I tried to make it hatful. So...uh, thanks for giving me crabs. :I  
Tokyo - AWWW, sweet n' tender thaaang. Scout and Pyro do make great BFFs. (If you get suspended, it's not my fault.)  
Mattsy - He does, doesn't he? He's a hippocrite too, because he can't pronounce anything right. (i know yer a girl sir c:)  
Jinny - It...it was so Medic? AWWW! Thanks, I forgive you, and you are most definitely welcome. :D

_And now back to the show._

* * *

The mystery-solving buddies were on the case.

"So, our first case is why Snipah is a fuckin' liar," declared Sherlock Scout, hat flapping with every step down the hallway. "HMM_MMMM._"

"Hmmw rhh whmm ghmnuh fghrrh thmmt uhmt?" asked Watson the Pyro, gingerly fixing the outer rim of the modest pile of hat.

A grin formed on the face of the young man, for he had the most flawless comeback possible. "Element'ry, my dear Watsin!" He then burst into such laughter that he was forced to bend over to let out the obnoxious guffaws. "BWAH HA HA HA HA HAAA! OH! OH MAN! AH AH HA HA _HAAA!_"

"...ymh mm-kmh, Shrmmlck?"

Scout gradually recovered from the giggling fit, wiping tears from his eyes. "Yeah. Sorry, Watsin. A'ight, so we gotta interview him. We gotta, like, ask him stuff, and you gotta write in down in dat journal I gave you. Is dat clear?"

Pyro nodded.

"LET'S DO DIS." The party had gotten itself started.

Soon enough, they'd reached the kitchen and Sniper was sitting there flipping through a golfing magazine, just as expected.

Sniper looked up briefly at the two REDs staring into his soul. "Uh, g'day, then."

Tick tock, concur o'clock. "I_ do_ concur dat ya just woke up 'cause yer eyes look red and puffy behind yer ugly yellow glasses, an' I_ also _do concur dat you are makin' coffee 'cause I concur it smells like dog turd up in dis hizz-house," concurred Scout, ever the concurrer.

"Great discoveries there,_ Sherlock_," was the sarcastic scoff from the Aussie, lifting the magazine up to his nose in mental diversion. Unfortunately, Sniper hadn't known that Scout literally_ was _Sherlock, and behind him stood Watson writing down any noise either of them produced.

"WOAH! HOW DA HELL DID YA_ KNOW?!_" squealed Scout through his grin, for he had not expected such a response. "ARE YOU A DETECTIVE,_ TOO?_"

With this statement came due confusion. Sniper lifted his eyes from the golf club page and muttered in a gruffly helpless manner that resembled a poverty-stricken stray dog; "...eh?"

That was taken as a 'no,' and it was recorded like so in the conversational notebook script. Scout went back to their original mission. "A'ight, so I gotta ak's ya some questions and ya gotta reply wit nothin' but the truth and ya gotta swear it," commanded the Bostonian detective, somewhat totally knowing what he was talking about. "Ya got dat?"

A squint showed suspicion behind the yellow sunnies. "Depends. Whot koind a' questions ya goin' to ask?"

"Shtmmf hmm rmhrhhm mhhrgh mrhhr ghmm lhmmr!" replied Pyro in all honesty, happy to be a part of an unofficial crime case.

"OH MY GOD, SHUT UP, WATSIN! YER SUPPOSED TA JUST WRITE DOWN STUFF, OKAY?_ JEEZ!_ DO YER_ JOB!_" screeched an emotionally unstable private eye. Whirling his face back to the Aussie, ear flaps still bobbing at the sudden velocity, Scout put on a solemn face and replied, "You'll find out when I ak's da questi'ns, Mr. Snipes. Do ya_ swear_ ta tell nothin' but the truth with_ aaall _yer heart an' veins an' skel'tin bones?"

Sniper groaned, for anyone in their right mind knew that Scout-the-dauntless-nudnik would just pester one with pointlessness.

The magazine dropped to the table in defeat, making residual drops of orange juice frost seep into the uppermost golfing club. Promises from the Australian are usually at least an attempt at being sincere, but this was a very sad exception. "Oi promise. Ah, yes, _totally._ Cross moi heart and swear ta be hacked t' bits boi machetes and fed to wild goats." He sighed. "Spill 'em."

"Questi'n numbah ONE!" Scout paused for a moment to recall what the real Holmes usually asked. "Uh...uh..."

Pyro tapped Scout's shoulder à la 'Call a Friend'. "Psssht!"

"What is it, Watsin? Do yer job."

After a glove motioned a vague '_come hither, Scout_', Pyro cupped a hand around Scout's ear and whispered something in stifled secrecy. The Bostonian busybody nodded stormily.

Seconds later, Sniper was interrupted from the unimaginably intriguing story of Nicklaus winning the Australian Open yet again. Persistent Scout was persistent; "SNIPE! GET YER NOSE OUTTA DAT CRAPPY BOOKLET AND PAY A _TENSION! _HOW OLD ARE YOU?"

Sniper looked up with sad eyes, for it was only the first question and already he would have to be ridiculed before two team members.

"DA FUCK YA STARIN' AT _ME_ FOR!?" screamed Scout. "ANSAH, OR I'LL SLAP YOU LIKE DEY DO SOMETIMES IN COP SHOWS!"

He shook his head slowly in disappointment. "Okay, listen, how 'bout we end it roight he'e and Oi read moi magazine loike nothin' ever happened – "

Scout's teeth bared and he nearly snapped his overbite in half. "I'M MOTHAFUCKIN' _SHERLICK HOMES,_ SO YA GOTTA ANSWER, O-_KAY?_"

"Whot the...snap_ out_ of it, mate! Somethin' in the food, maybe? Food poisonin'..." Though his fast thinking was highly efficient, it was not presented in a polite manner. "...hell, Oi_ knew_ Heavy added some so'ta secret ingred'ent in those sickly dough-things." He nodded at the fellow firebug. "Pyro, would'ya_ kindly _tell him he's jus' Scout, not some ficti'nal English nance..."

Objection; "NO I_ AIN'T,_ I'M A DE-_TECT-_IVE, _STUPID!_ AND I EVEN HAVE A _HAT _TA PROVE IT!"

"YMMH! MMHRH SCHMMT SHM_ SHRMMLCK HLMMSH!_"

"CROIKEY! YA DON'T GOTTA ALL GANG UP ON ME!" whined Sniper. Self-defense did not help his cause, for Scout's question had yet to be answered. "Whot the hell's this_ for _again?"

"_ANSAH, _FAGGOT."

Sniper crossed his arms, stubbornly opposing the informational blast that would begin their clue-search. "Oi ain't answerin' until Oi know _whoi_ th' hell it's bein' _asked_."

Scout's eyes popped out of their sockets in Bostonian malevolence. "RES-_PECT_ MY _AUT'ORITY!_"

First came a sigh, and only then was Scout's command met. It was not a proud response; "Oh, god damnit, Scout! Forty-three, alroight?"

Scout's eyebrows shot up. "In regular years, or dog years?"

Good thing Sniper's hearing eroded with time. "Sorry, didn't catch that."

"I...I just said...uh...'cool story!'" squeaked Sherlock. "Uh, um, anyway, uh...hmm...what kinda other questions are dere..." He looked over at his trusty sidekick. "Pyro, ya mind bailin' me out again?"

Sniper grunted. "Whot're ya even gonna use this information_ for?_ This_ ain't_ yer profession and it sure as– "

The only logical question of the conversation was not heard by Scout. The show of stupidity must go on; "Questi'n numbah TWO! Are ya married, or are ya a pervy low-life who collects pictahs of wi'men leanin' over cars in swimsuits?"

Dialogue was spilled at such a rate that Pyro's pencil could hardly catch up to the words said.

Sniper smiled and then chuckled a bit. "Woah, now that's a bit biased of a question, don't ya think? Oi mean...just 'cause Oi – "

"A-_HA!_ YOU_ ARE _A LIAR!" screamed the concurring detective. "'CAUSE ONE TIME I SAW A MAGAZINE LIKE DAT, AND I CONCUR_ YOU_ WERE _HOLDIN'_ IT!"

The Aussie frowned. "Yes. Oi know. Got around foive...or, uh, possibly thirty-seven." He coughed. "Whot's it gotta do wit lyin'?"

It was the most important part of their purposeless case-on-a-treadmill. "OH MY GOD, WATSIN. NUMBERS. DID YA WRITE DAT DOWN? 'CAUSE YA BETTER'VE WROTE DAT DOWN. NUMBERS ARE FUCKIN' IM-_PORT_-ANT."

"MM WRMMTHNGH MMVRHMTHNMGH DMMWN, YMM MDMMTH!" ranted Pyro in muffle-tone antiphon, the sound of pencil scratching against paper filling the air.

"Okay, enough. Enough a' it." Sniper sighed. "Oi answered two stupid questions and all Oi wanna do is relax today after that bloody food foight yesterday, ya hear? Oi don't think Oi_ ever_ can get those bloody Russian shit-pastries outta moi ear. And Oi didn't get a pint a' shut-eye." He winced, for his sleep deprivation was finally catching up to him. (And so were the 13 of 37 that were still lying on his camper van cot.) "Oi'm_ far_ too tired ta get int'rrogated, and – "

"HE'S A LIAR 'CAUSE HE_ WINCED!_" declared Scout, though his hypothesis was neither proven wrong nor right. "'Kay, a'ight. We are going to investa'gate RIGHT NOW 'cause yer secret time is OVER, you fuckin' LIAR! LIIII-YAAAR! LIII-YAAAR! PANTS ON FIIII-YER!" Every day is Scout-sings-a-skipping-rope-rhyme-to-make-him-into-a-complete-babbling-child day.

Sniper's eyelids drooped, for he was not one for fun and games. "Uh...'investigate'? Really?"

"BYE, LIAR! WE'RE LEAVIN' BECAUSE YER A RETARD LIAR FAG!_ BYE!_" screeched Sherlock, dragging his buddy Watson out of the kitchen by the hand. "LET'S GO!" His voice gradually faded out as they disappeared into further realms. "LET'S GO FROM THE LYING BITCH-ASS, PYRO! HE'S A COMPLETE STUPID-BRAIN THAT WE HATE!"

It was back to fantasizing about buying golf clubs for poor Sniper, who was unaware that these accusations – which simply made him roll his eyes and grunt minutes later – would soon result in an uncanny reason for team hatred.


	4. The Brilliant Blackmailing Lesson

As all good detectives do, Scout was pacing around in a circle whose perimeter was tracing along the bench Pyro was then lying down on, swatting at flies with a rubbery glove. It was a wonderfully clear day outside as they rested by the Sacred Evergreen of Manly Awesomeness and Legendarily Attractive Guys Such as Scout (namesake copyright Scout ©1968 - who else?), hence a great opportunity for...

_Mystery.  
_  
Bringing a hand to rub against his chin, Scout hummed for a moment in a manner very similar to Holmes; "_HMMMM._"

Pyro watched with intrigued goggles, as if Scout actually had a brain cell in his rattly skull.

The figuring-out-why-Sniper-was-a-barking-mad-sociopath had begun. "Yeah, so, I know he keeps stuff in his van, but we can't even get inside his van because we don't even have his fuckin' keys that I bet are in a retarded place or something...but, ta be honest wit you, I don't even wanna go in his van anyway because I've been rode around in dat dump-on-wheels one time and_ daaaaamn, _son, it stunk like an old skank," muttered Sherlock as a showcase of his incredible IQ.

"Whmmt uhbmmt hmsh rmmh?" suggested Pyro.

Scout looked up, the front flap of his deerstalker pouting over his frown. "Uh, what da hell_ about _his room?"

"Thm ehmvhdmnce mmrght bmh hnn hmsh rmmhm."

He grinned. "WATSIN...WATSIN! YER A FUCKIN'_ GEEEE_-NIUUS!" sang Scout.

The arsonist giggled in a highly muffled tone.

And so it was. No skank-smell for them.

* * *

They made their way over to Sniper's room and – with a similar sneaky atmosphere upon them as when they attempted to reel the Private Eye in from Medic's office – prepared to unveil the messiest and most neglected bedroom in all of the base.

As soon as Pyro opened the door, both could tell Sniper was not only a liar but also a hoarder.

The walls were trying oh-so-hard to be wallpapered, yet they were peeling and turning as yellow as the spare ten jars of Jarate balanced on a rickety-looking table beside his bed. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that Sniper could have napped on a carpet of hot coals, but his bed looked to not have even been used once. Instead of any sheets covering the sickly mattress, there was a miserable blanket of old socks that could have easily been put into dozens of natural history museums for prehistoric research.

Upon craning his neck up, Sherlock discovered the ceiling was cracked and had some sort of grease dripping down into a saucepan like_ Chinese Water Torture - Low-Maintenance Edition. _Too bad the saucepan itself was full, so every drop added to the small puddle forming around it instead.

Though most REDs take trash out every Sunday for the dump truck to digest, it appeared that the trash can resembled more of the dump truck than their tiny garbage bags. Bulging out of the rusty metal were so many soggy tissues that they could have easily been woven together to form a pretty impressive cloud, and betwixt those odd-colored white clumps were year-old chicken nuggets that were green enough to already have been brought back to life and killed again. Flies swerved around the garbage as if it contained hallucinogens.

A desk – probably too large to fit in the van – was riddled with paper and scribblings and photos and bobbleheads and vinyls and bootlegged movie discs and countless other trinkets a normal person would have already shoved with the nuggets and the fapkins.

Around the room hung multitude of Australian event posters, most of which were unidentifiable to a the average Joe unless he was the average Bilbo Baggins. Other sorts of posters – ones with bikini models leaning over cars, just as Scout remembered – were plastered onto the walls as well. The doubles that nearly sprung out of their wet swimsuits were basically the only attractive thing about the entire room.

One could not see the bedroom floor.

"Wow, I don't think he's been in his room for, like, five-fifty thousan' _years_," Scout huffed, kicking his way through the sea dirty clothes. "Wait, no, dat ain't right. I mean...I don't_ concur_."

"Mhm, Shrmmlck, mgrhmd." Pyro stepped on something with a crunch. Looking down, Watson discovered the crisp thing under the rubber boot was a browned-up rotten head of lettuce. "MMMRHHGHGH!"

Unable to hear the woe of others, Scout's eyes darted across the room for a morsel of evidence. He locked glare with a certain heap; jackpot. He scurried over to the desk and squealed like a excitable toddler. "LOOK, DERE'S LIKE, A MILLION PHOTOS!"

"Phmtmsh?" Pyro joined his side.

"WATSIN! WATSIN, WE STRUCK GOLD!" cheered the young man. Photos flew through their hands and were indulged in their eyesight. Most black-and-white-and-somewhat-sepia Polaroids were pictures of the Aussie with his family, something that induced laughter from both of them. Some were more boring, depicting Sniper with friends or in the foreground of a nature scene. The deeper the two got into the photo pile, the less wrinkles appeared on Sniper's face. But there was one photo that truly made Scout gasp so loudly that Pyro thought he'd faint due to lack of air circulation.

"Whmm? Whmm msh mth?"

The Bostonian was unable to answer, for his mouth was twitching and the ear flaps of his hat stuck up as if they gravitated up to the greasy ceiling.

Pyro leaned over his shoulders and almost lost both lungs as well.

In the photo was something highly uncalled for. At first it appeared to be a completely unrelated photo like that of only his friends or perhaps another boring band album.

But as their eyes riffled about that picture, it became less and less of what they had expected.

A circle of bodies nestled on a flowery grass, sun making their desaturated faces seem paler than they appeared. All of them either wore tie-dyed shirts or no shirt at all, but the few that were dressed less had tattoos on the skin - mostly dragon graphics, sometimes flowers, some of them with words written in fonts that were too blurred to read. After scanning the image with betrothed Bostonian eyes, it looked as if Sniper was the leftmost of the men sporting tie-dye shirts (thank god for that, since Scout would most likely pretend to vomit for at least two hours).

Sniper's haircut was...unique. The dark knotted bandanna around the top of his head with hair falling to his shoulders looked strange after seeing the assassin on-duty with about half the hair.

The assassin was smiling – grinning, even – with different circular glasses down to the tip of his nose and eyes finally lacking a squint. The RED they knew so well looked ages younger, for he lacked those exact assortments of smirk-imprint-fossils that made his face look like a shriveled blanket.

Of course, Sniper's appearance was a big factor, but the strange white cigar popped betwixt his gap-toothed grin was the giveaway;

"Hmmh? Snrmphr msh mh_ himmphie?!_"

Further examination commenced. The other beatniks surrounding him were all wearing similar sunglasses as well, though styled and appearing to be of different tone. In the grassy epicenter of the explosion of flower-child faces – each of which surrounded by a sloppy mop of tied-back hair – rested a tiny pile of various flowers. After so long was it discovered that no girls were in the picture, but it was a bit hard to tell that fact for volumous flowing hair makes for quite the distraction of gender identity.

Scout flipped to the back of the Polaroid to see faded ink scrawled in indecipherable letters. He pointed to the pen smears. "Pyro, can you read dis? I think it's in Australian."

The mask shook beneath its hat with a sigh, for Scout's vacillating ideas of false languages were far too much for the average bear to handle. "Shmmrlck, thmth'sh crshmvh."

"It_ is?" _Scout squinted and pulled the writing a mere centimeter before his eyeballs as if it would make a difference. He rolled the strange new word on his tongue; "Cursive. Currrr-siiiiive. Huh! Never heard a' dat language. Maybe it's from da far distant islands of Australia or somethin'. But either ways, dat's, like, da worst handwritin' in da hist'ry a' ever. I can't read_ jack-shit. _And I can read loads a' crap."

Some Pyros do not agree, but the same minority chose to stay silent.

After ten minutes of examination, Sherlock made a conclusion. "I do believe dis situation is real rather_ persnickety!_" huffed he, tugging on his frontal hatflap.

"Whmm'sh thmmt?"

Scout shrugged. "I dunno." He looked back at the back of the photo with utmost concentration. "Wait a secon'! I think I can see numbahs aftah dose weird-ass language! Da...da numbahs say...uh, is dat...18...no, wait, 19..." That's about as far as he could go. "I think...yeah...19 somethin'...sorta..."

"19..." The gears in Scout's literate portion desperately needed to be oiled with the grease of better Boston public schooling.

"Uhhhh...19...like...1, an' 9 an' then...uhhhhhhhh..." The petite blob of gray matter after the digit confused Scout's smaller pea-brain, though his veins pumped with great dirty puns about various animals.

Eureka at last for the young man; "_1959!_ I was 10 then, I think! Hey, dat ain't even such a long time before. Woah, wait..._what?_"

Pyro watched as Scout looked up to him, confusion contorting into angered comprehension. "If Snipe's a hippie den, Snipe's a hippie now. Don't ya see? This ain't just _any_ case, Watsin. Dis is da biggest case we had yet."

Let me quietly remind you that it was also the only case they'd had yet.

The snortalicious French snort was the giveaway of a certain someone. "Snooping as usual, I see?"

The two hat-heads took a shock and a full-body swerve only to discover it was Spy peering in on them with a cigarette dancing in his smile.

Spy waltzed into the room with all the pride of a royal groom, seemingly unaffected by the Australian pig slop on the floor. "Zhis isn't your private estate, gentlemen. It is Sniper's, correct? Intruding on natural 'abitats of bushmen. Activities of zhis manner aren't done for fun, usually."

The cigarette drifted up in a small grimace. "I believe you're 'ere to gather some sort of information, yes? Quite surprising you 'aven't had_ me_ to step in on such a project yet. I_ am _zhe Spy, you know. 'aving any...say, investigational troubles zhat I could 'elp you with?" Spy snickered.

Scout raised up a satisfied smirk in defiance to the professional French pragmatist. "I do concur ya should shut da fuck up, Spy, 'cause me n' Watsin here know somethin'_ you _don't!"

"Did I hear zhat right, or...?" He paused with a confused grin. "...you and..._Watson?_" repeated Spy.

"I'm Sherlick!" announced Scout.

Spy snorted far too loudly before bursting into his fits of gut-breaking laughter. "_HAAAA_ HA HA_ HA!_ OH,_ PLEASE!_"

Pyro took this in massive offense. "SCMMTH MMD MMH RHH DMMTHCTVHSH! SHMM_ MMP, _SPHM!"

Spy snapped his head over to Pyro, giggle-fun-time abruptly ending. "Oh, play and play your little game, you silly freaks. I'd bet a fortune you never even read Doyle's work." Snobbish as he was, his next sentence was completely demeaning to both of them. "What a waste of his wonderful idea. 'e was a magnificent writer, mind you."

Scout stalled. "Oh yeah? Oh _yeah?_"

This did not taunt Spy. He raised an eyebrow. "Yes and yes."

Scout didn't expect such a direct answer. "...w-well, I watched da_ movie!_" he argued, utmost pride shining through his tilted-up chin. "And movies are bettah den books. Ha ha, in yer dumb fat face!"

This wasn't taken seriously at all. "AH HA HA HA HA HA HA!" He snorted twice. "AAAAH HA HA HA HA HA _HAAA! _Oh, what a disgrace to humanity! What, so now if I watch zhat shitty remake of_ Romeo and Juliet_ zhat was on last month I'm automatically acquainted wizh Shakespeare?"

Spy brought both gloves to press his cheeks together, making him look exceedingly silly. His voice grew squeaky and mocking as he continued; "_Oh, look at Scout! Zhe reading aficionado! FINALLY, he's not some sort of pea-brain zhat melts on zhe couch watching MOVIES like a complete TWIT! Such an intellect wasted on such an ugly, UGLY boy!"_

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP,_ SPY!_ I DON'T EVEN LIKE READIN'! READIN' IS FER NERDY DORK CHUMPS LIKE_ YOU!_" Scout nearly chewed his own tongue off with his snappy retorts. "You shut yer dumbass French trap" – he waved the Polaroid in the air as if it needed more time to dry – "'cause da national state law saids ya gotta leave cases like dis to da professional detectives LIKE US! So do e'ryone a favor and ya back off and don't – "

"Oo, what's zhis?" A glove flew to snatch the photo. In a second, their evidence was in the wrong hands: in an embarrassingly literal sense. (Sorry, Holmes buddies, but you two would never make it as real agents.)

Wide eyes spread below the frontal deerstalker flap. "HEY! YO, WHAT DA FUCK?" Scout attempted to rip the picture out of the man's grip before Spy could understand what the Polaroid depicted, but Spy pursed his lips and refused to let go until he could have a look for himself. Reasoning was useless because one could have already had a thousand looks, but the photo was down to their feuding arms like a game of tug-o'-war.

Spy sneered as he attempted to tug the photo from Scout's thumbs. "I'm going to find out what's on it sooner or later_,_ you little_ brat!_ Let me 'ave just zhe slightest_ glance,_ would you?"

No matter how hard one pleaded, lack-of-logic was sure to win in the end. Or at least, it seemed so by volume; "OH MY GOD FUCKIN' DON'T_ LOOK_ AT IT, IT'S CLASSIFIED INFO'MATION ONLY TO DA POLICE AND INTERPOL AND DETECTIVES LIKE_ US!_"

Scout's grip on the photo was ceased for a second. But, before Spy could have a look, his nose was hammered back into his balaclava by the knuckles of a misbehaving Private Eye.

Bundles of nerves in the specific spot sent the pain spiking his adrenaline to an unhealthy limit. "RRRGH, ÇA_ PUTE!_ LET ME _SEE!_" The little slip of camerawork was hoisted up by those red pinstripes to get a shorter Scout grabbing up like a needy child and sent Spy bursting into laughter. As soon as Scout's hand was inches away from taking back Sniper's personal property, Spy delivered a mile-per-minute glove smack between the eyes that sent the boy flying against the desk.

"AAA_AAUGH!_" With a painful clunk made by Scout's hip bashing against wood, a plastic bottle of pencils was knocked off the side of the desk and sprinkled down into the trash can with all the soggy tissues and the zombie nuggets. The poor pencils.

"MMH MYH_ GMMHD!_" screamed Pyro, becoming quite aflutter at the fact that Sherlock had just been attacked. The assistant-detective's assumption of the matter was incorrect, for Scout had been the true_ attackée_. It seems the Watson-wannabe isn't as good of a concurrer as previously thought.

Scout, half of whose weight was sturdied with Sniper's desk thanks to his own helping hand, nearly tripped on a pile of unsent thank-you letters beneath his feet. "IT_ AIN'T_ OVER, LARD-BALLS!" With a grunt, he lunged at the Frenchman and sent them both to a messy heap on the floor in a very kamikaze_-_inspired sabotage. The Sherlock hat flew into the air. Lucky for arsonist arms, it was caught and nestled lovingly.

Spy struggled to attempt a final look at the grayscale, but Scout flailing about before him made it hard to even sneak a peek. As soon as the Polaroid neared Spy's viewing point, a hand smacked against Spy's cheek and its velocity was two newtons away of making the nosy Frenchman need a neck brace.

If Soldier were there, he'd make an unwanted WWII joke. "FORFEIT! FORFEIT!" pleaded the Frenchman, for he had no reason to wash his suit yet again after that little dumpling-spill the other day. "STOP IT, WILL YOU! 'Ere, Christ, 'ave zhe photo!" With a sullen expression, he squirmed out of the two-person dog pile, rose to his feet and tossed the picture to a shocked Scout who was still sitting on the floor.

That was certainly an unexpected turn of events. Shoving the photo into the front pocket of his pants, he steadied himself with the weight of the desk as he regained his regular posture. "Wow, thanks, scumbag." The hat was plopped back onto his head by Pyro, but Scout didn't even notice or provide his friend with a polite 'thank-you'.

"I'm sorry for putting up such zhe hassle," said Spy, eyebrows straight and smirk forming yet again. "I suppose I really should 'ave minded my own business, shouldn't I 'ave?"

Pyro stuck a hand out in apology-acceptance. "Mm-hm, bhmt yhmm nvhhr dmh."

As stealth and fire shook gloves, Scout simply pouted his own platysmus for all to see. "Yeah, well, I guarantee dat if ya ever gonna come by an' try ta steal one a my things again yer gonna get it right in da – "

"_Yoink!_" In seconds flat the picture was before Spy's face, held with both his gloves. "Ha ha ha, what zhe 'ell? Hippies? What's zhe big deal?"

Round two; winner, the Spy. "AWWW, YOU FUCKIN' DOUCHE!" There was nothing more to say – or rather groan – other than a vast array of under-the-breath remarks. Though sure to be a little infra dig, what would have had served them very well would have been a humble little speech along the lines of '_we should have not trusted you, for you are obviously better at espionage and detective work than us. Perhaps this is due to the fact that the whole of your profession consists solely of nosily butting in your nosy butt where you don't belong. As phony movie-based detectives working without a cause and using only the small wits we have, we would have gotten away with our not-very-intricate plot if it weren't for you meddling Spies! Darn, we really got outsmarted by you this time! Fair play and touché, my friend!'_

But the road to having something said also crossed the little side-hills of dignity, so it ended up sounding more like '_I hope you have fun hoppin' on dick, ya ugly French fag_' and '_Ymh mrthrfmmkrh, Sphmh. Lmtrhlly._'

Insults didn't concern him, especially obligatory ones such as those. "Wait a second!" Spy's eyes bulged far beyond his balaclava. "'oly_ mackerel!_ Zhat's Sniper in the bottom left, isn't it? Oo."

"Wow, big fuckin' genius brain of yers," grumbled Scout, crestfallen in his own way. "_We_ knew dat_ before_ you."

Spy inspected the cigar within the photo. "Ugh, is zhat really hemp?"

"Whad'ja say?"

"Hmph?"

Innocence must be kept. "Oh, er, nozhing. Just anozher French word you don't know, yes." Spy raised his eyes, tilted eyebrows sliding up his mask. "So, any observations_ you_ 'ave made, men?"

"It says some shit on the back in Australian!" declared Scout with a grin, happy he'd contributed just a bit.

Spy nodded, flipping the photo over. "I see." Spy had taken a class back in the day to classify any possible handwriting – part of the incognito curriculum, as you know – and his knowledge was rusty but still available. His most astonishing feat was reading the sloppy handwriting's number content in two seconds flat; "Says '1959', hm." Spy suddenly snapped into crime-investigator mode;

"Zhe letters is tilted a bit to the right and lines appear shaky...'astily written. In a hurry. Either zhat on or the influence. Pen drifts out at zhe end. S'hough it appears it was 'eld zhere for a while...sort of jiggles out at zhe last moment as if not determined by Sniper...per'aps on zhe plane or boat back to his parents from California or Nevada or Texas or wherever zhat 'ippie thing was 'eld, I'd suppose. Ink looks faded, so I'm probably right..."

Tiny pang of discovery; "Mm, what's zhis? Just noticed zhere's some sort of smudge in zhe corner. I can't make it out. Probably written in similar ink and smudged before dry, what a shame...could 'ave been anozher clue, I'd say. Probably zhe name of zhe hippie thing, but zhat's just a near guess. Every detail matters in any case, as you know, so..."

"Spy?"

He looked up, eyes still serious though he was thrown off of his concentration. "Scout?"

Scout kicked at the floor sheepishly, making it seem apparent that the next sentence was sure to be a sensitive topic. "If I was from France, where you was from...would I get cool supah-detective powahs like you?"

Spy closed his eyes and emitted an exceedingly lingering sigh, only then to state, "No, Scout. Just...shut up."

Scout's shoulders sagged with a feeble, "Aww." Sprining back to life with a usual grin, Scout then continued his own little investigation. "What if I wore yer mask every day fer the rest of my whole wide life?"

"So, enough wis'h zhe stupid questions." He began anew; "What are you going to do about zhis photo? Might want to tell me, for I doubt anys'hing will work out unless." A mockish smile formed on Spy's lips, for he knew that any figuratively devious thing the two idiots could dream up wasn't going to useful to anyone in the long run. "As we all know...zhe best-laid plans of mice and men often go astray." He let out a clever little snort.

Scout started off well – "Oh, yeah, well, we're gonna..." – but his sentence ended by trailing off and turning towards Pyro. "We have a plan, right?"

Pyro shrugged helplessly, whining, "Dhmn'th lmmk mmth MMH! Mh dhmn'th_ knmrh!_"

That was about the saddest sight Spy had ever seen. His eyes just drooped and his face perplexed into one of complete lack of understanding. Spy didn't understand how was it possible that no one _else_ had the talent of knowing exactly how to put one of the REDs into deep shit. "No? No blackmailing? No tattling?_ Nozhing?_"

And again.

"Blhmmkhngh? Hm?"

"Wha' da hell's 'blackmailing'?" The remark was taken aback to save the smallest stride of worth in himself; "Wait, no, I think I heard dat word somewhere...is it about taxes? It sounds like it's about taxes. If it ain't about taxes, then it fuckin'_ should_ be about taxes, a'ight?"

First hemp, now blackmailing. Spy truly didn't believe that he belonged on such an ignorant excuse of a team.

A finger raised to press against his temples as if assuring himself his head hadn't exploded due to such stress yet. The photo was a pint of willpower away from being crumpled to a crinkly bit. Only one sentence could sum it up probably; "Excuse me, fellows, but you two are_ complete_ FOOLS!"

Pensive self-defense; "Nmh!_ Yhm'rh_ nnh mdhmth!"

Assertive social-offense; "GO FUCK A COLAH'ED PENCIL!"

Contemplative social-defense; "Fine, idiots. I'll tell you what blackmailing is, all right? It's...give a moment.._._" He coughed and proudly announced the exact definition of the word, for he was the intellect of the team after all; "..._zhe exertion of s'hreats in an attempt to influence someone's actions._"

Impulsive self-offense; "Uh...I have no idea what da hell you just said."

(I'm trying to imply a psychological-conversation-based soccer game.)

(Scout was losing.)

An eye-roll was the proper reaction from a Spy, for his definition seemed clear enough to any normally-educated man such as himself. "You basically could make Sniper your bitch now so everyone doesn't find out 'is past. Can do whatever you tell him to – mock and pester him as well, and he can't do anything,_ per se._" What a sadistic fellow Spy was, for his small chuckle that sounded right then wordlessly showed a world of things Sniper had already done for him. His gloves intertwined like that of a villainous cartoon character; "Sounds just_ great,_ yes?"

"COOL! I WANT SNIPAH TA BE MY BITCH!" cheered Scout, for every historical Aussie-is-now-my-bitch moment needed fathomable confirmation. "Can he, like, make me breakfast e'ry mornin' and stuff like dat?"

"Snmmphr'sh_ mhy_ bmmtsh_ tmmh!_" huffed Pyro.

Scout hurriedly corrected himself. "Make_ us_ breakfast, I mean!"

Of course, this was certainly a weird request. Spy smirked and shrugged, hands pulling apart and shoving into his pockets. "Uh, technically, yes. If zhat's what you want._ Chacun son goût,_ I suppose."

"YAY! HIGH_ FIVE,_ PY-BRO!" Gauze met rubber with a lighthearted smack.

The lack of their imagination was killing Spy from the inside of his backstabbing heart. "What, you don't 'ave any other ideas?"

Scout grinned. "Maybe we can get him to wear his clothes inside out!"

"Wmh cmnh stmmhl hsh HMTSH!"

The face before the mask grew expressionless. "Zhat's...zhat's literally_ all_ you can come up wizh?"

Scout looked back at Spy, expression content and tilting his head a bit with a murmur of, "Sorta, yeah."

The Frenchman groaned and counted off the options with the tips of his gloves. "Well...'e can clean your room, drink his own piss, make a fool of himself, drive you to places, give you money...oh, I don't_ know_ – "

"COOL! I WANT SNIPAH TA MAKE A FOOL OF HIMSELF!" cheered Scout for the second time. "WE SHOULD, LIKE, MAKE HIM DO CHA'LIE CHAPLIN IMPRESSIONS!"

Pyro instantly got a mental image and couldn't resist but to explode into muffly giggles.

"Don't you_ realize_ zhat Sniper could do virtually_ ANYZHING_ for you?" His palms flung out before him, hands gesturing every which way, leather balloons before a fast-motioned helicopter. "'e can be your SLAVE! 'e can give you 'is PAYCHECKS! TAKE OUT ZHE TRASH! DO YOUR LAUNDRY! AND PER'APS IF YOU WANT TO GET TO ZHE EXTREMES, YOU COULD MAKE HIM JUST GO ON 'IS KNEES AND GIVE YOU..."

The eyes among the mask grew wide, for that sentence was stopped just at the right moment. Quick save needed, quick save proceeded; "Give his...shoes. Or his sunglasses or somes'hing." Spy coughed. Quick save completed...

Scout and Pyro looked a bit confused, but the sleuths didn't get the clue-of-the-day.

...quick save succeeded.

The persuasion hasn't been concluded properly, so Spy started his little rant-paragraph anew. "In short, 'e can do COUNTLESS ozher_ SICKENING_ S'HINGS! And_ all_ you two can s'hink of is_ breakfast._ I say, what a _disappointment!_"

Scout huffed. "It's better den what you did. Weirdo."

Moment of terror. One could literally see the back of Spy's suit rise in a spastic jerk of his trapeziuses. It was a horrid mistake of him to tell both the REDs every which way blackmailing could be performed. Oh, how terrible it would be to have to work on that Scout, and Spy shuddered to imagine what inhuman parts lay beyond Pyro's full-body suit. "Men, please..." A faux smile twitched behind his mask. "Let's not take anything to such extents. It didn't mean anys'hing, do you understand? It was just one time – "

"Yeah, but I still think it's creepy a' you ta wear his shoes. Like, what?"

Pyro seconded that thought. "Whmmt mh stmmphd wmy tmh blmckmmhl Snmmphr."

It appears the quick save really did work. Spy threw his head back slightly with a sigh, tugging his sweaty collar away. "Ah, thank the lord." He snapped back into his regular stance. "Anyway. How will _you_ go about blackmailing Sniper?"

The Jeopardy theme tune could have really fit in that moment. Scout's eyes were averted towards his cleats that dug into the floor like plastic jackhammers, whilst Pyro crossed both arms and_ hmm_ed.

"We can put peanut buttah in his shoes before he wakes up, and then he'll be all like 'crikey, it's dog poo-poo'!" announced Scout before howling in laughter with Pyro.

"Zhat's a_ prank,_ not blackmailing!" snarled Spy, grinding his teeth so hard it's a wonder the cigarette didn't erode to two bits. "And we don't even_ 'ave_ a dog! And you already did zhat s'ree_ days_ ago! TO_ ME!_"

A conclusion had been formed. "Pranking are funnier den blackmailin' by a thousan' times."

The number was multiplied by a perplexillion nonsensicillion. "Mh mmllhn-trmllhn-gmzhllhn-bllhmn-whmtmllhn-gmghrhshtmllhn tmmhs!"

It was time to seriously give up. He threw his hands up, defeat overtaking him. "Zhat's it." He tossed the photo in his hands to an awed Scout, that hurriedly grabbed it from the air. "You know what? I give up trying to give dumb_ children_ proper knowledge!" Spy whooshed around and attempted to leave the room in the same way he had gone in. "Vous two are – " the squeak of a rubber horn underfoot interrupted him – "_ridiculous!_ Sort it out your_selves._"

"Yer MA is ridiculous!" countered Scout, for everyone had a soft spot for their mother.

Spy stopped in his tracks to turn around with a sly grin. "I wouldn't say zhat about_ your_ mozher..."

Scout growled and shook with such vigor it looked as if his neck would pop his head right off to bash through the greasy ceiling like a Bostonian bottle rocket. Before he could think of a proper comeback, Spy was already gone with the door slamming behind him.

"Whmmthmvhr," humphed Pyro, not letting the Frenchman's insults get to either of them. "Fmmk Sphmh. Dmshebmgh."

"Yer RIGHT, PYRO! We don't gotta depend on a NON-DETECTIVE anyway!" screamed Scout, voice aimed at the door as if his current goal was for Spy to hear the REDs insulting him behind their back. "BECAUSE SPYYYYY IS_ SOOOOO_ GAAAAAY! AND HE SMELLS A LOT! AND FRENCH PEOPLE ALL ARE REAL DUMB AND CRAPFUL!"

No response.

Pyro flipped an arm at the unseen target. "Dmshebmgh."


	5. The Brilliant Scheme

The shameless crime-fighting doublet decided that the best way to go was to simply shame poor Sniper. That's because _everyone_ loves to shame Sniper for no apparent reason. Other than the fact that he's the shameful team scapegoat. Of _shame._

Back to the kitchen it was – in a non-sexist sense – for Sherlock and Watson. In their mental space-time continuum, Sniper was probably still there in the kitchen and all was exactly the way it was about forty minutes ago. They subconsciously figured this because, of course, everything in life just_ had_ to go their way. Tee-hee, ta-ha.

Tempt not a desperate man with Sherlock Holmes remakes. (I can now proudly say I am personally acquainted with Shakespeare, nearly as well as Spy is.) Especially not poor, desperate Scout, who could be doing something better with his time.

Anyways, _Dr. No_ would have been a more fitting movie for Scout and Pyro's little idea to capture Sniper.

Their evil plot is as follows:

Together they plotted to jump into the scene in slow-motion, holding up finger-guns (_pretend_ finger-guns, of course) and shouting "PEW PEW!" – or rather "PHM PHM!" – and then exclaiming that they had Sniper surrounded. Sniper would go out of hiding, they would show him the picture, and he would cry out in agonizing fear and – the following being Scout's little addition – Sniper would piss his pants so hard he'd drown himself. A few facts were not taken account of by them, therefore making their plot completely ludicrous;

**1.** Sniper is a trained assassin and will most likely not cry out in agonizing fear unless they would blackmail him in the manner that Spy does about twice a week. And even then I doubt he'd cry out. After all, he's trying his best to be a Mann. He would most likely just groan. Spy would be the only one who could say that for sure, though. Because I bet it's pretty agonizing to...have Spy wear your shoes. Or your sunglasses or something.

**2.** It is physically impossible for any normal adult male's bladder to hold more than 16 to 24 ounces. Unless he is Saxton Hale, that is, whose urinary tract can hold more than Engineer's pickup truck. That's because Saxton Hale is the true Jarate Master and Sniper is just a fan-boy wannabe.

**3.** Even if it were possible for Sniper's bladder to be able to produce enough urine to fill the room, the doorways lacked a door because it was a modern form of architecture in the 1800's. His urine would just make a two-centimeter puddle all over the base at most, considering there were no cracks in the exit of the doors.

**4.** If Sniper were to drown, Scout and Pyro would drown too. Scout doesn't even know how to swim. And Pyro's totally screwed; a gas mask? Seriously?

**5.** Years and years of scientific research at some institute somewhere proved that pretend finger-guns don't go 'pew pew', they go 'pow, ha-ha'. Even Heavy knows that, and he can't make a pilmeni dumpling for his life (the entire team knows _that_). Read a book sometime, guys. Preferably a pretend finger-gun book. However, don't take my word for it, since I highly doubt those exist. Unless Heavy'll make one. But his nonfiction-novel-writing talent is most likely as bad as his culinary skills.

Frankly, their plans were not able to go as expected.

But I'd say one would already a bit curious to see what_ actually_ happened.

* * *

The doorway, as previously mentioned, was just a lazily-built arch. Lack of doors wasn't actually popular in the 1800's. Redmond just didn't feel like building another door, is all, and no one actually cared.

But now two self-proclaimed detectives were counting down the seconds until Sherlock Scout – who had two finger guns and a hippie photo in his pocket – and his proud hench-Pyro would burst into the room.

No stealth this time, as with the stealing-of-the-Private-Eye scene. Only ambush. And loaded finger-guns. And hopefully Sniper-urine-drowning. And...

_...mystery._

But there really wasn't anything mysterious about showing someone a photo and then pretending to shoot everywhere.

Pyro and Scout were huddled right there beside the lazy archway with all these thoughts in mind. Except for the sensible ones.

Pyro, fair and square as the arsonist was, expected a countdown just as always. This made the RED crouch down and wait for some kind of signal from Scout to _go, go, go, charge!_

This wasn't done to the slightest, for Scout's psychological development was all sorts of conceited. Without warning, the young man bolted past the doorway and straight into the room, slow motion factor of their idea now completely gone. "PUT YER HANDS UP, MR. SNIPAH! WE GOT YOU_ SURROUN_ – "

The sentence was never brought to a proper close. As Scout ran in, hands drawn and ready to fire, his cleat didn't function in a fashion that any product-safety bureaucrat would allow. Instead of a skid to a stop, there was a loud squeak from both the Bostonian and his shoe, and before anyone knew it he flipped backwards and whammed into the floor with his back. The saddest moment of all of humanity – and probably for Scout's future chiropractors – could only be expressed in the most distressed vowel of all;

"AAAA...AAAAAAAAAAAA...AAA_AAAAAAA_UGH!"

Pyro leaned in from the doorway, sure that nothing was going according to plan when it wasn't Sniper who was bawling like a 6-year-old with a stress disorder. "SHMMRHLCK! NMMMMMMH!"

Tear ducts were squirted of their contents in a miserable fountain. "MY-BACK-MY-BACK-MY-BACK! MY-FUCKIN'-_BAAAAA_-AAAAAH-HAA-_HAAAAACK_!"

All became clear when Soldier clomped in, sloshing bucket of water in one hand and mop held with massive self-respect in the other. He ground to a clumsy yet orderly halt beside the Bostonian's head and began furiously scraping the floor with the sickly old mop. This method was likely to ruin both the tiles, the cleaning utensil, and any janitor's hope for military humanity. "Scout,_ is_ there a PROBLEM here? I am TRYING to wash the FLOORS."

No compassion was shown, for emotions are the work of needy housewives. (Because cleaning totally wasn't a woman's job at all.)

A sniffle sounded from Scout, whose eyes were still glossy with tears. "Y-y...y-ya coulda_ told_ me if yer gonna wash da fuckin' kitch'n floors like a fuckin' pussy. I hope ya fuckin' wash yer ass. Dickfag."

Perhaps it had been a sensitive subject, for Soldier's teeth suddenly bared in ferocity. "I am NOT a PUSSY! SOMEONE has to clean the floors!" Soldier raised the mop to its horizon and wrung the neck of the poor wood as if he were ready to snap the cleaning mechanism in a clean half. "AND NO ONE_ EVER_ DOES THE CHORES_ I_ ASSIGN YOU MAGGOT_ SCUM_, SO_ I_ HAVE TO DO THEM ALL MY_SELF!_"

The accusation was found just a bit frivolous. "Whmmth mbhmmth thmmth tmmh_ Mmh_ clmmndh mllh thmm rmmhs?"

Soldier looked up in fear and grumbled uneasily; "Oh. Uh, right. And you were a...magnificent help, Pyro. E-especially when you burned the handle of the mop. It looks...uh, cooler that way." He nodded feverishly. "Yes. Yes, the...mop looks...great. Great when burnt. I just...I...I love burnt mops."

Prideful Pyro-Watson response; "Thmmkh ymmh!" Pyro giggled.

Sniffling that exaggerated his miserableness did not gain Scout any audible sympathy. When worst came to worst... "UH, EXCUSE ME? I AM FUCKIN' IN PAIN HERE. ANYONE GONNA HELP OR ANYTHIN'?" Anyone tutoring Scout of his little inferiority complex would have loved the following situation. "FEEL BAD FOR ME! FEEL_ BAD_ FOR ME_,_ GOD_DAMNIT!_"

"Nmmhd mmh Mdmhc?" asked Pyro.

The demand for pity, for some reason, did not accept sympathy. Scout's hiney muscles rose him up so he became a right angle that – during the course of his young life – had been wrong more often than not. "Naw. I'm a big man that don't need no help by dat ugly germy-German who caught us stealing his hat. Jeez.

"What a_ fag._" (Let's at least hope that was wrong.)

As they say, curiosity killed the cadet. "Hey, look, a paper." Soldier pointed the soggy edge of the mop at the photo on the floor. "Don't remember seeing that there before."

Scout sprung up and in front of his shorter sarge, injury gone for good. "EV'DENCE! STAN' BACK 'CAUSE YER NOT A POLICE GUY OR FBI OR PRIME SUSPECTS!"

"EXCUSE ME, SON, BUT_ I_ WAS CUTTING_ BARBED WIRES_ IN_ 'NAM_ BEFORE_ YOU_ WERE CUTTING YOUR_ MILK TEETH!_" Soldier plunked the bucket down beside him to send a plop of water plunking upwards like a mini-mushroom explosion. Yet again their plan had been foiled as the American knelt to pick up the photo.

(_Steeee_-rike two! Scout, Pyro; let me say it again. PLEASE don't be detectives.)

Pyro then spoke of the truth. "Wmhw, Shmmrlck, wm smck."

Minutes later and still nothing was discovered. Perhaps it was the low-brimmed helmet that disfigured his eyesight in such a way. For a long while he squinted at that photo, only then to ask, "Why you luggin' around a picture of hippies, boys? You into them or something?"

And now the secrecy was forgotten. "It ain't JUST a pictah, ya blind dumbass! It's a pictah a' Snipah bein' a hippie in 1961 and also dere's a smudgie."

Soldier jerked his head up at the word, sending his helmet bobbing atop his head.

Scout squinted. "What're you looking at?"

Soldier did not budge and continued on with his exaggerated panic attack. "_WHAT! _DID! YOU!_ SAY!?_"

"A smudgie," repeated Scout, frown forming. "Why, is dere a problem wit dat? Fine, dere's a...a fuckin' _stain_ on it. Dat better?"

Apparently someone else was actually able to cope with interacting with Scout. "No, the OTHER thing, you pathetic SWINE."

"Wow, really? I said fuckin' 1961, reta'd." Scout didn't appear to be insulted at all, but what goes around comes around; "I think you caught Alzheimer's, Sol. I'd tell ya ta get a hearin' aid that'd fit yer size, but it'd be so big it wouldn' fit undah yer stupid helmet!" Scout laughed nastily.

Pyro was standing somewhere behind the arguing two, head swinging to every word as if it were a legendarily epic rap battle of history. A one-person standing ovation sounded, and judging by the fact that there was only one other RED in the room it was quite obvious whose fireproof gloves were raising the baby ruckus.

"I MEANT_ WHO_ WAS IN THE PICTURE!" Soldier clenched both fists and rocketed them in front of him like a pro wrestler, ready to bash Scout's teeth right down his throat. "IT'S NOT MY_ HEARING_ THAT'S THE PROBLEM, BUB, IT'S YOUR SNAIL-SKULLED MALFORMED EXCUSE FOR A TWO-PINT_ BRAIN!_"

Muffled hoots filled the kitchen.

Massive betrayal-anger followed as Scout snapped his neck around. "I THOUGHT YA WERE ON_ MY_ SIDE!"

His detective counterpart just shrugged helplessly, for the winning diss-team was quite apparent already.

Unfortunately, the lympics were interrupted by a certain grungy old Scott. "Whit's the yellin's all fer? Ye be achin' me eardrooms."

Scout forgot the current situation to plunge into his own little world of rapid mental connections. "OH MY GOD, DEMO! IT'S REALLY FUCKIN' YOU! GUESS WHAT? I SAW A LADY AND SHE TALKED JUST LIKE YOU IN A MOVIE. SHE DIED, THOUGH, CAUSE A RAPIST KILLED HER. THE MOVIE WAS SHERLICK HOMES: STUDY IN SOMETHING, I FORGOT. BUT NO, SERIOUSLY, SHE TALKED _JUST_ LIKE YOU." A grin formed on his face, expecting some sort of reaction, though it was highly unclear what kind of response could be formed to such impulses.

Demo blinked his bloodshot eye.

"Uh, hoots, lad." Some scrumpy appeared from Demoman's back somehow – a good man must always have spares – and he gulped into a merry swig. Noticing the strange article of headwear, Demo gestured with the bottle's neck; "Aye, th' hat? Yer into the detective stuff now?" He sighed. "All thes' 'fads', hammerin' through all the young'uns. Whit's next, michty me…"

"Mnh mndh Scmmth mrh SHMMRLCK MNDH WSHTMN!" boastfully announced none other than our favorite muffled friend.

"Ya don't gotta sigh and say stupid stuff in Scotlandish," Scout grouched, hands on hips. "'Cause we actually did a case. And the case was called 'Why Sniper Is a Liar.' And guess why? He's a sneaky pete and he hid a big fat secret from us, dat's why. Only ya can't see it, no matter what ya do. 'Cause you ain't a detective, like me an' Pyro."

Things lead to things, and soon enough Demo snatched the photo from Soldier's hands and that was that.

Save your Aussie-pity-tears, readers. You'll be needing them.


	6. The Brilliant CountOff

A good graduate of Texas Tech is aware of how the Newton's cradle works.

A great graduate of Texas Tech knows precisely how to explain the Newton's cradle in terms that can be understood by a child.

A 4.0 GPA graduate of Texas Tech planted one right on his desk after a good old homemade dinner and began working on his blueprints with the satistfactory click-click-click chiming peacefully in the background.

If you were his 9-year-old daughter named Sarah and you would have curiously examined the device before asking, "Pa, what's that thingy ya got on yer desk?" You would have gotten a small chuckle and the utmost parenting attention that most dads would rival for.

"Good question, hon. Ya see, Sir Isaac Newton was a famous inventor back in his time," Engineer would begin. "He thought about physics and gravity, why things drop and why things move." A glove would have stopped the metal spheres whilst still in motion to make them freeze into five silver peas in a pendulum pod. "This is one a' his most famous ideas. Truth is, it don't do none, but the thing 'bout it is how the movement spreads. As Irene an' I always say, y'know, 'it's the thought that counts.' An' Newton was tryin' ta prove a point with these here things too.

"First one a' them does their own thing..." The grey fingertips would curl around the leftmost sphere and bring it far back, away from the four clustered in the center. Then the grip would disappear and the ball would go flying back and clunking to the second with a click, and suddenly the rightmost sphere was off too. "And now, ya see how its velocity set one off at the whole other end?" As soon as the rightmost returned back with another click, the original would come hurling away. "Do ya see that? That's called conservation of momentum, sugar." A smug grin would spread across his face; "Science in motion." The clicks would drone on daintily, not increasing tempo nor slowing down.

"Energy travels through objects is what he meant. First it starts real simple and easy an' all, but then it keeps on goin' and goin' because a' the force ya put on it in th' way beginnin'. It's like every single time it changes, it begins all over again." He'd balance a face on his palm with a sigh. "Goes on almost forever. Heck if that ain't that a wonder."

Only after watching the psychics take course before his eyes would Engineer turn to his daughter and make sure he'd explained it well enough. "Ya get it?"

"I can't believe that yer so smart ta know all that, Daddy."

* * *

"Y'ALL HAVE GOTTA BE FOOLIN'!" gasped the poor Texan as soon as he'd snatched the photo from Heavy. "THERE'S NO WAY IN HELL THAT ONE A' OUR TEAMMATES..."

Ten minutes later, the kitchen was a crazy crowd of commotion and grabbing hands and a single Polaroid.

"I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS!" Soldier assured himself as he stomped across the room. "I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS!_ I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS_!"

Heavy, who found it hard to say hello, was completely lost with words at the strange occasion. Eyes wide, he produced only a steady grumble; "Don't know...what do now? How we tell him?" Heavy paused. "Wait, maybe ees bad idea to tell him...do we tell him in first place or no? What eef he get mad at us for looking at his photo? Maybe ees worth getting him mad. I am strongly lost."

"Ah, ist so strange," groaned Medic, the only one sitting on the kitchen table with confused face in hands. "I don't know about any of yah, but I am not sure if I am speaking to him evah again."

Soldier grimaced. "Seconded, doc!"

"Well, I never...aw, thirded." Judging by his fiddling hands, Engineer wasn't sure what else to do but agree.

The detective who started it all was really in on it. "Holy fuck, yer, like, SO RIGHT! Yeah, let's do dis, people. I ain't communicatin' wit dat weirdo no more ever again in my entire life _forever!_ Fourthed."

"Agree," said Heavy in a quite simple manner. "Five."

"Smmcksdh!"

"Ain't gonnae pass this one up," grinned Demoman. "Seventhded."

A masked nose pulled up into the air with a snort. "He deserves it. Eighthed."

"G'day. Whot're we countin' off on, mates?"


	7. The Brilliant Chaos

RED had been intruded by the very _target_ of the count-off.

That had never, EVER happened before.

Everyone's necks nearly cracked off in a lurching jolt as Sniper-the-center-of-attention leaned against a doorway, smiling innocently.

It was an agreement - almost a team law - that once something was said there must be at least one comeback to it. Awkward silences weren't common in a room of nine, and it seems as if the last time they'd all been quiet was when they'd been having a who-can-hold-their-breath-longest contest or a Medic-hosted Quiet Game. Even a sneeze demanded attention; a "gesundheit" here and a "wipe your nose" there. For someone like Heavy or Pyro, to which talking is somewhat of a hassle, it was logical for a word to pop out less often. But to see Soldier and Scout being quiet for once - at a question, too - was about the strangest thing anyone could ever see.

The corners of Sniper's lips drooped and he jerked about awkwardly for a moment as if to check if time itself had frozen still. "Oi," he grumbled. "How come no one's sayin' anythin'?"

After a minute of complete silence and only stares, Sniper groaned in resentful recognition. "Oh, wow. Don't tell me. Moi fly's undone again..." A hand patted about to check for an available zip-up. When nothing felt out of the ordinary, he let out a satistfied little "Hm." Then Sniper noticed everyone's eyes still darted about hesitantly in the same way than before, so he knew a greater force was at hand.

He frowned. "Stop this weird-arse prank and tell me whot's goin' on, would ya?"

The issue was taken head-on, and no one had the slighest notion of how and what to respond.

Except the most charismatic backstabber in all the base.

"So, Heavy," began Spy dutifully, turning away from his forlorn ex-friend. "How do you do, my fair aquaintance?"

What a betrayal.

Another teammate casually glanced at Spy and nodded as if nothing was out of the ordinary at all; "Hi. Ees good." Heavy formed a friendly little smile.

Sniper frowned. "Stop it. It's not funny."

Though Heavy's eyes darted onto Sniper for half of a second, his logic went poof and he continued his charade with Spy. "Ah...what ees good in your day life? Any new s'heeng? Yes, no, maybe so?"

The words were stretched out as if he were purposely trying to make his fellow Aussie feel completely neglected; "Oh, _yeeeees,_ I am quite acertained I so _dooooo_ 'ave somes'hing _neeeew!" _snapped Spy in his usual coqueting way, slight smile softening the sentence. The next sentence was said with eyes locked onto Sniper's; "I just can't buh-_lieeeeve_ zhat _no one_ noticed I got my _suuuuit preeesssssssed!"_

What a loud dramatization that followed; "All for _noooothiiiiiiing!_ Oh, sacre _bleeeeeuuuuuu!" - _the back of Spy's hand raised to his mask dramatically and both eyes rolled up as if he were about to faint - "_Whaaaaat_ a dis_aaasterrr!_"

Teeth bared and eyes glowering, Sniper had the enraged qualities of a drunk driver and conveyed the booming voice of a strangled choir; "HEY! _OI_ DID! THIS BLOODY _MORNING!_"

"Wow, dat's REALLY bad that NO ONE NOTICED, Spy!" Scout's lips were squeezed together in a twitchy almost-smile, making it quite obvious that if the young man hadn't controlled himself with every drop of his self-restraint he would have burst into roaring laughter. "...I-I mean, wh-when someone doesn't compl'ment you ALL MORNING that's r-really...DEPRESSIN'!" A giggle flew out and soon enough Scout was cannonading into howls with tears rolling down his cheeks. "HAW HAW HAW HAW, OH _MAAAAN!"_

"WHOT TH' HELL IS UP WIT ALL OF YOU?" Sniper growled like that of a wild animal, bringing two grappling knuckles to his side. "OI BLOODY _HATE_ THIS SHONKY TEAM! OI DON'T EVEN KNOW WHOT OI DID AND LOOK AT YOU ALL IGNORIN' ME! OI'M A _PERSON!_ OI'M A _LIVING BEIN'_ AND YER ALL TREATIN' ME LOIKE _DIRT!_ TO _HELL_ WITH ALL OF YOU! HOW _DARE_ YOU!? _HOW __**DARE**__ YOU!?"_

No one responded. Scout immediately shut up. Internally the REDs all fought instincts to run or hide or possibly even apologize from such a predator.

"No reaction?" grumbled Sniper, bloodshot eyes growing in size. "NO REACTION? _NO REACTION?_

"_AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGH!"_ The squeak of a chair sounded for a brief moment before an earsplitting clomp filled the room. One of the kitchen chairs had zoomed through the air and crashed straight into the tile wall with the loudest noise any of them had ever heard - and they work in a military base, so that's saying a lot.

As soon as the team's ears recovered their heads flew towards Sniper, whose foot was drawn out in an ideal kicking position and whose chest rose and fell with every vicious breath.

Sniper jittered a smile over to the awed group, though his eyes glowed with vengeance. "...S-so y-yer not gonna do anything about th-that either?" A bit of spit was forming at the corners of his grin as if he desperately needed to be institutionalized. "Y-yer just gonna s-sit there? Loike nothin' e-ever happened?" His chin rose up as his lips revealed more of his yellowed teeth. "N-no big deal. Y-yer...n-none of you are gonna make a-any reaction t'anything, Oi see? Ah...ahehehe...heh..." At first it began as a devastatingly awkward chuckle but soon arose into full-fledged crowing. "HEH HEH HA HA HA! HEH AAAH HA HA HA HA HA HA _HAAA!_"

Everyone was dying to scream, cry, do _something_ - but it was against policy of the 'we-counted-off-so-now-you-either-ignore-Sniper-or-stick-a-toothpick-up-yours' rule, though it was never declared officially. The in-your-facey conversations against the bushman appeared to be a horrible idea, for now everyone on the team was glitched into their poses much like a very successful game of Freeze Dance. Other than an occasional gulp from beneath a tight uniform's neck seam, the room's inhabitants were drowned by evil Australian wheeze-laughter.

There was one very important mistake the team did not realize before completely mocking the 43-year-old pervert.

Sniper, whose anger problem was most likely clogging itself in his arteries at the moment, possessed a power - and split personality disorder - like no other.

Though most humans could read body language by perhaps a smile or a tear or a flick of the brows, some hazardous piss fetishists could sense fear like a bloodhound; sadly enough, this hazardous piss fetishist managed to sport sunglasses and a fashionable hat, and somehow he'd gotten into a team of people just as insane as he was.

The very scent of a fast heart pulse made Sniper direct his insanity toward a certain someone with a Sherlock hat atop his head. Scout, who was shaking in his cleats so hard his teeth were a molar xylophone, was secretly wishing for death as his fate was then very apparent.

Sniper, grinning from ear to ear like the mad hatter he was, stepped towards Scout with eyes so big they hardly left any room on his forehead for his arched brows. "Hello there, Mister _Detective_," he hissed, rasp in his voice accompanying his bloodthirsty expression.

Scout then proved that hamsters aren't the only animals capable of earsplitting squeaks.

"Ya scared?" The corners of Sniper's grin twitched slightly as did his left eyelid. "Ya...yer scared, aren't you? Ha ha ha."

His team did nothing to protect the poor Bostonian. Poor Scout whirled his head about to see his team frozen in place like meserized chesspieces. "HELP!" he squealed, regretting his sentence a moment later.

"Help? HELP? Oi don't think so!" continued the bushman with the face of a drooling undead. He reached into his pocket and dug out a convienient silver kukri - God knows why he had one on hand - and raised it up. "Unless you want me to CUT A BLOODY SMOILE INTO YOU" - the blade neared Scout's nose - "TELL ME WHOT'S THE BLOODY REASON FO - "

It appears that the law of count-offs can be broken in dire situations, and this situation was more than dire enough.

Just then, a piercing shriek rang through the air.

It wasn't Scout's.

Their heads swerved from Sherlock to Captain America, who was charging at Sniper with mop high above his head as if it were a medieval mace. Soldier swung the feminine artillery down and whacked Sniper so hard with its greasy tendrils that the poor man flopped down onto his bum and the kukri was sent flying into the air. Sniper, who awoke back into his regular smirky state, clutched his dented hat and screamed, "WHOT TH' HELL?!" The kukri clanked down onto the kitchen tile.

The first of many dominos had fallen;

"YOU ARE A _HIPPIIIIIIIE! _I DO NOT ACCEPT HIPPIES ON MY TEAM!" The mop pointed at poor Sniper, who jerked his neck back as the tip of the wood nearly clashed against his glasses. "I DO NOT KNOW WHAT THEY ALLOW IN THAT KANGAROO COURT OF YOURS BUT _DAMNIT_ - IN THE NAME OF SAXTON HALE, I _WILL_ KICK YOU_ RIGHT_ OUT OF RED ON YOUR SORRY TREE-HUGGING_ ASS_ AND INTO A _SEWER GRATE!_"

And thus a ruckus was born. Chaos and mayhem were brought into the world. In a record time of 26 seconds, too!

The first 13 seconds were spent as a German explosion of fury, for the chance to finally screech like a madman had come about. Medic scurried over to Sniper, who cringed with butt on the floor, screaming "YAH LYING IDI-AAHT COWARD FOTZE! VHY DIDN'T VE DO ANYZING TO GET YOU OFF ZA TEAM YET!? VHAT IST ZA REASON YOU EVEN GOT ACCEPTED!? YOU AH A DIS-_GRACE!_" Maybe words weren't enough, because Medic almost cracked his neck throwing his head back in the loudest yell that could ever have been produced. "AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRCHHHHHHH!"

Medic wasn't alone in his shrieks, because Pyro really could scream under that mask. "GMMD THNMMG MN MND SHMMRLCK FMMND MMT YMM WHMMR MM HMMPHIE! YMMH FMMGHT!"

"YEAH! PYRO'S FUCKIN' RIGHT!" added Scout. "YER A FUCKIN' IDIOT AND I HATE YOU AND PLUS NO ONE EVAH LIKED YA SINCE WE JOINED AND NOW AT LEAST WE HAVE A REASON WHY! I WONDAH WHERE YA HIDE YER DRUGS. PRO'LLY WIT YER THREE SWIMSUIT MAGAZINES!"

One must wonder why Engineer thought it was a good idea to hush the room by adding to the noise. "CAAALLLMMM DOWWWWN! CALM THE _HELL_ DOWN! EVERYTHIN' WILL BE ALL NAHCE AN' ORD'RLY IF WE CAN _CAAAAALLMMMNNN...DOOOOWWWWNN!"_

Poor Sniper's eyes darted from person to yelling person as the seconds ticked from 14 to 15.

By 16, Demoman's alcoholic fury kicked in. His eye glowed with cyclops fury; "AH'LL...AH'LL FOOCKIN'...AH'LL FOOCKIN' MAKE A SOUP OUTTA YE GUTS AND FEED IT T'...T' THE PIGS, AYE. AN' THEN THEY EAT IT IN TH' TROUGH AN' TH'N THEY BE MAKIN' A REALLY BIG FUSS B'CAUSE THEY...th-they're..." He realized he'd messed up his favorite barline slur, but no matter. "YER FACE IS UGLY AS PIG ARSE."

19 on the clock and Soldier was running out of both insults and breath. No worries, though, because nothing could stop him as he finally had a chance to list synonyms for his least favorite minorities; "BEATNIK! DRUGGIE! LIBERAL! FLOWER CHILD! CANADIAN!"

"You could have_ told_ me you did_ hemp!_" snapped Spy to make a sort of duet with Soldier's ongoing archetype-bombardment. "You are filzhier zhan I could 'ave ever imagined! Sick, you are! _SICK_ AND _UNPROFESSIONAL!_"

Heavy was a bit lost. "I DO NOT KNOW VHAT VE ARE YELLING_ ABOUUUUUUUT!_"

Sniper's head throbbed and he couldn't decipher a single word of the entire conversation. "Wh-whot are all a'...?"

"TREE-HUGGER! COMMIE! DROP-OUT! GYPSY!"

"FELLAS! _CAAAAAAAALM DOOOOOOOOOWN!_"

"I _HAAATE YOUUU_, REPULSIVE_ BUSHMAN!_"

"YA SHOULD FUCKIN' DIE! I FUCKIN'...YER A FUCKIN' DOITSBAG, 'KAY? 'CAUSE, LIKE, HOW LONG WAS WE ON DA SAME TEAM AND I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW DAT?! WOW, LIKE, WOW!"

"HMMR MMH? YMM'RH MM FMMCKNMGH FMMGHMT!"

"HAIRY HIPPIE! HIPPIE! YOU...YOU HIPPIE! _HIPPIEEEEEE!_"

"AN'...AN' TH' PIGS'RE GOONA GIT A BIG TUMMYACHE AFT'R EATIN' YA!"

"VHY DID I EVAH HEAL YOU IN ZA FIRST PLAAAACE!? _VASTE_ OF MY _TALENT!_"

Poor Heavy still had no clue. "LOUUUUUUUUUUUUUD NOIIIIIIIIIISESSSSSSSSS!"

It was only a matter of time before the 26 seconds of bedlam were done-and-done. Soon enough everyone was done with their insult barrage and were huffing angrily.

Everyone waited for Sniper to respond.

Sniper cleared his throat.

He sniffed.

He paused.

"Er...whot exactly did Oi do?"


	8. The End

A/N: Holy. Stinking. Sewer water. No way did I get 52 reviews. My eyes are watering up.  
Thank you so much - every last one of you. I'm getting so many feels. ;-;

_No, seri'sly. Ya all _ROCK.  
I've never actually finished a multichapter story before.  
You guys helped. LOADS. WUV YOU.

You have my permission to empty out the Aussie-pity-tears you've been saving under mattresses and in filing cabinets.

* * *

"Ve'll miss you!" assured Medic, one of the first in the crowd of REDs.

The airplane was due to begin flight in about fifteen minutes. It was the final depart before Sniper would be shipped off back to Australia, his very now-pissed-off parents, and his old friends that his long-term memory loss had helped him forget.

The Sniper uniform had been nearly swiped right off of poor Mister Mundy, as were his rifles and his trusty camper van. (It seemed Mann Co. owned a good portion of everything their ex-Sniper had.) The good Samaritan that he is, Engineer had taken the liberty of packing Sniper's bags and finding an outfit for the go-away day.

Inside the spare empty use-only-in-dire-emergencies-involving-misplaced-briefcases RED intel - they decided to give it to him as a departure gift for memory's sake - were the bare necessities: a comb, three paper clips, a misshapen toothpick, and his entire collection of swimsuit magazines.

Sniper himself looked completely unrecognizable. Somewhere in the mess under Sniper's bed, Engineer had found a pair of Bermuda shorts that - though they showed off way too much leg hair - matched an enormous blue pineapple-shirt Sniper had hanging from the ceiling fan. Even his shoes had been Mann Co. property, so his feet were enshrouded in the classic catwalk catastrophe: black socks and black sandals. At least Sniper's hat and glasses were still intact. Otherwise, the team would have to be saying goodbye to a complete stranger who seemed to be a 43-year-old tourist that had gotten lost on his way to Hawaii.

Of course, not the whole team decided to take the thirty-minute ride to the airport. Soldier stayed at the base because he had to 'organize his thoughts'. At first, it was the-team-minus-one, but then Demo made up some excuse for them to drop him off at a pub halfway there.

And now they were just one of the many families crying as they waved goodbye to businessmen with tear-stained handkerchiefs. Except for the fact that they were not a family, they most certainly weren't crying, Sniper was nowhere near a businessman, and their tear-stained handkerchiefs deserved more depressing occasions.

"Ah simply don't know how we're gonna git by," sighed Engineer. He meant it.

And when I said 'he meant it', I said it in awe. Engineer was the only one that actually seemed to be emotionally connected with other human beings. Medic was doing a great job pretending to care, Pyro and Scout were busy giggling about something only they could understand, Heavy seemed to have an overall indifference to the situation and, lastly, Spy looked so casual he could have just shrugged and walked off.

"T'was Halloween," said Sniper. No one chose to hear him.

Medic let out a very good pretend-sigh. "Ah...it's going to be so different in za base wizout you."

"Yeah." Scout looked into the heavens above, sighing up into his Sherlock hat. "I mean, how is we all gonna live wit'out some silent pervo who looks at doity pictahs of women all by himself? And does nothin' except squat around like a chicken turd in basic'lly every battle dat evah even took place? Man, we'll miss ya so hard."

"Gmmdh rmmdhnce tmmh bmd rhmmbsh!" Pyro laughed.

"Aw, be quiet, ya two troublemakers!" snapped Engineer in a hoarse whisper that everyone could hear. "This is the last goddarned time yer ever gonna see him so ya better not act up!"

"T'was Halloween," repeated Sniper, mostly to himself, "and Warren's little sister knew how to tie-dye..."

A British voice above them informed the train station that there were 10 minutes before the flight to Australia.

Heavy stuck out his arm to the muttering Aussie. "Eet was so good time when you are on team. You will shake hand?"

Sniper looked up with a deathly glare. "When's the last toime Oi spoke to you outside a' battle, fatso?"

"Eh..." Heavy was stumped. His hand shriveled to his side.

Spy took the opportunity to bid farewell. "Bushman?"

He turned towards Spy, leaving the Russian somewhat hanging. "Th' hell do _you_ want?"

"In all seriousness..." The solemn eyes beneath the mask enforced that sentence. He pulled his cigarette out of his mouth and exhaled a cloud of smoke, making an old lady behind him cough up a storm.

Spy locked his eyes into Sniper's and said plainly, "I will miss you."

Sniper sniffed. "Oh, goody."

Spy ignored the sarcasm. "I will miss your sickening smell of urine."

"Hm."

"I will miss slapping you across zhe face whenever I disagree with you."

"Hm."

"I will miss wearing your shoes."

"Whot?"

"Never mind." Spy smiled.

And now there were 5 minutes left.

"I wondah how it felts ta be a hippie," Scout thought aloud.

"T'was Halloween," grumbled Sniper.

Scout turned to Medic with a squint. "Did Nazis kill hippies too, or were they, like...yeah?"

Medic regretted not bringing a spare truckload of fluoxetine. "Zat's vun of the dumbest things I'd evah heard in my entiah life."

No one in their right mind would understand Scout as he beamed proudly. "Thanks, bozo. Yer pretty old, so that's sayin' a lot."

Pyro appeared to understand Scout in some sort of way, because the arsonist found the situation to be one of the most hilarious things in the entire world.

Sniper's shoulders gradually sank. "A lot a' people slammed their doors in my face instead of givin' me treats. Some people threw tomatoes, actually. My mum said maybe my costume was too convincin'."

Engineer placed a glove on Sniper's shoulder, making Sniper snap his neck up.

"Now, don't ya go on with mumblin' ta yerself and bein' all down in th' dumps." Engineer smiled reassuringly. "Soon enough you'll be home with all them family an' yer home sweet home and all that." He twitched. "And yer...uh, magazines."

"Don't forget about zhe _stewardesseesss..._" sang Spy, who was able to turn any sentence into a suggestive tune. He subtly directed his gaze towards a certain uniformed woman walking past them.

Sniper flicked his brows and craned his neck to properly admire the sight. "Woah."

"Yeah, Spy," Scout began.

Scout beginning anything was not a good thing.

"I mean, maybe the stewardesses gonna be nice ta you. Because da stewardesses don't even know that yer a dirty stinkin' rotten liar dat reads golfing magazines, and also magazines about wi'men leaning ovah cars. Dey don' even know dat yer a complete low-life who's never gonna get laid. And dey don' even barf in deir mouth a little bit when dey see ya, 'cause...y'know. None a' dem sorta found out yet dat ya just lost yer job where ya used to use a gun ten thousan' times da size a' yer dick and throw yer smelly pee-pee at people."

Sniper's expression turned completely neutral. At least he took it well, for he was used to people leaving cuts and bruises in his sliver of self-worth that he'd left lying around somewhere back at his room.

Scout held out for two seconds before bursting into uncontrollable laughter with Pyro.

Engineer sighed at his own unresolved stress issues. "An' there goes another gray hair..."

In the spur of the moment, Sniper caught sight of the clock nailed to the far wall. "Damn, three minutes. Oi should get goin'."

"Ve'll miss you!" assured Medic.

Though he tried his best not to, Scout ended up insulting more people. "I concur y'already said dat. Yer losin' memory too, just like Solja. I betcha yer old enough ta be my gran'pappy. Hell, ya can even be my gran'pappy's gran'pappy. No, wait, ya can't have kids, 'cause yer gay. Plus yer way too old to even belong in my family's entire gen'ration."

Medic's nostrils flared and he nearly fumed smoke out of his ears.

"How come e'ryone on this team is a bunch of old people? What is dis, a fuckin' retirement home? How come I'm always da freakin' youngest one? Like, y'are all complete retards. None a' you even ever heard a' Elvis P'esley! And Elvis P'esley is the shit, bro. You all suck.

"Except you, Pyro. You're chill. I mean, we're like, da biggest Elvis fans in da whole wild world. 'Cause we're young an' hip. But Medic? Damn, I'm su'prised he got enough hip left for him to stand up. I mean, how does he even - "

"Aw, clam it already, Scout!" snapped Engineer.

A good Heavy must always defend his Doktor. "Yes, Scout, ees best if you stay hush. No one loves your tiny prick mouth to talk."

Scout grinned. "Is dat a challenge, baldie? Oo-hoo-hoo, what'cha gonna do - give me fuckin' OBESITY?"

Engineer winced. "Harsh."

Heavy cracked his knuckles in preparation. "YOU ARE BE QUIET THEES SECOND, OR ELSE YOU NEVER TALK AGAIN!"

By now the entire airport was making snoopy side-stares at their argument.

And then Scout burst into song. It was set to the tune of Mary Had a Little Lamb.

One must really wonder how Scout's brain works.

"MEDIC HAD A BIG FAT ASS WHOSE FLEAS WAS RED AS _PUUUUUNCH!_

"AN' _EEEE'RYWHERE_ DAT MEDIC WENT, HE ATE STEAMED DICKS FER _LUUUUUNCH!_"

Scout's brain is the true enigma of this story.

A muffled giggle-fit filled the air.

Heavy inched closer. "YOU NEED HELP WIS'H SHUTTING OWN MOUTH, LEETLE RUNT OF LEETLE LEETER?"

Medic groaned. "Heavy, really, just ignore him..."

It seemed a compromise was not something a Russian would agree with. "I WILL LET _NO ONE_ TALK OF MY DOKTOR IN SUCH WAY!"

This was all too much of a public embarrassment for Spy, who considered it a sin to dine with elbows on a table. "Oh, zhis is just _marvelous._"

Just as Spy began to bicker, all the passengers that were due to fly to Australia were commanded to report to their correct gate immediately.

"Well, Oi s'pose this is goodbye," grumbled Sniper.

"MEDIC WENT TO FIGHT ONE DAY, FIGHT ONE DAY, HE'S REAL _GAAAY!_"

"SCOUT EES ASK FOR HEAVY TO POUND SKULL INTO FLOOR!? COMMAND WILL BE DONE!"

Engineer skittered about, hurriedly patting everyone's shoulders. "FELLAS! FELLAS, EVERYONE'S _STARIN'_ AT US! MEDIC! MEDIC, TELL 'EM TA QUIET _DOWN,_ THEY DON'T_ LISTEN_ TA ME!"

"ALVAYS ME! ALVAYS ZA CRY OF _'MEDIC', 'MEDIC'_! VHY AM_ I_ ALVAYS IN ZA MIDDLE OF ZIS GOTTVERDAMTEN _SCHISS!?_"

Scout decided that improvising was the way to go. "MEDIC WENT TO FIGHT ONE DAY...BUT HEAVY FUCKED HIM _INSTEAAAAAAAAAAD!_

"AN' THEN AFTER THAT THEIR FUCKJUICE WENT ALL OVER THE ENTIRE _BAAAAAAAAAASE!_ AND THEN THEY CLEANED IT UP WITH HEAVY'S FLABBY _TITTIEEEEE-EEEEEE-EES!_"

Spy slapped his own face, which was his own method of resisting the urge to slap everyone else's. "SCREAMING IN AN AIRPORT! ZHAT'S _TRULY_ A NEW LOW! I CAN'T_ BELIEVE_ I 'AVE EVEN BROUGHT MYSELF _NEAR_ SUCH _NINCOMPOOPS! _MANNER-LESS AND IMPROPER, YOU ARE!"

Sniper watched for a moment.

"Y'know..." he began under his breath as the shrieks of his teammates droned on. "Oi learned something today. Two things, really."

Scout doubled over as soon as Heavy belted his knuckles to Scout's tummy. "OW! FUCK! MY FUCKIN' STOMACH! OW! DOC! IS DERE A FUCKIN' FIRST AID KIT ANYWHERE? SHIT! OW! DIS IS JUST LIKE 2 DAYS AGO WHEN HEAVY BROKE MY FUCKIN' SPINE WHEN I DIDN'T EAT HIS SHIT DUMPLINGS! MEDIC! C'MON, HEAL ME, _HEAL_ ME ALREADY, YA FAGGOT!"

"Oi learned whot makes us a team. It's more than just the gunfoightin'. Ya'd think it is - just the gunfoightin', Oi mean. That's whot Oi thought at first too. Oi thought 'hey, look at me gettin' all these headshots. Oi bet'cher bottom dollar RED's gonna win _aaaall_ thanks ta _me!_' Ya think that at first, when ya join yer team. But...nah. That ain't it. There's some sorta team bond that we hold even outside a' th' foights, and it's that bond that makes us stick togetheh."

"VHY AH YOU ASKING ME, SCOUT!? I DON'T VURK IN ZA AIRPORT, DO I!? VHY AM I EVEN GOING TO HELP YOU IF WE'RE NOT BATTLING!? VHAT'S ZA FICKING _POINT!?_"

"Oi wondered some days if it would suit me ta just be quiet. Just pry my mouth shut and pretend not to hear everyone else's blabber. That's how Oi was in the beginning; Oi was praying to sweet lord above that all a' ya could jus' rack off wit the talkin' and we could all battle each-man-for-himself."

"Y'ALL BETTER ZIP YER DAG NAB LIPS! AH DON'T WANNA HEAR NO MORE SHOUTS OUTTA ANY A' YOU!"

"Ya think it's the scheme that makes a win. It's not. It wasn't the guns that made us win, either. It wasn't th' number a' sentries. Or the number of blokes ya bludgeoned by the end a' th' day. Or the number of übers Doc's doovalacky could shoot out. That's whot Oi thought, and that's whot everyone thinks. But that ain't it at all."

"SCOUT, YOU WILL SEE WHO IS BEST MAN ONCE YOU COUNT HOW MANY PAIN I PUT WITH MY FEEST INTO YOUR TINY BABY GUT."

"It was friendship. It was friendship winning. It was friendship that screwed those ugly BLU hogs roight over their fat clackers. It was friendship that made us hoigh-foive each other as soon's Announcer said we'd won. It was friendship that made us take turns makin' dinner and flickin' the volume up and counselin' each other whenever anythin' ever went wrong."

"I WISH I 'AD NEVER _MET_ ANY OF YOU INCOHERENT _EXCUSE_ FOR PEOPLE. WHAT AN _EMBARRASSMENT_ TO EVEN BE IN THE SAME _ROOM_ WIZH _ANY_ OF YOU! I _WISH_ I 'AD BROUGHT MY CLOAKING DEVICE SO I COULD VANISH _RIGHT OUT _OF 'ERE!"

"At first none of you accepted me..."

"SNMMPHR, YMH FMMCKNGH _FHGMMT!_ THMMSH MS _MHLL_ BMMCMS MMF _YMH!_"

"...but slowly we grew into a family."

"HEY, HEAVY! YO MAMA SO FAT DAT AFTAH I BONK 'ER WIT A BAT, SHE SHAKES FER THREE DAYS!"_  
_

Sniper tipped his hat. "Oi ain't gonna lie, and Oi'll miss you all. 'n fact, Oi'll never stop thinking about all that time we spent together as a team.

"Friends we were, an' friends we'll stay. In my mind, at least. And that's a bloody oath Oi'll commit to...until I'll lose my train of thought as Oi crack a fat at that sexy stewardess. Oi'll have loads of 'trouble puttin' on my airplane seatbelt.' Heh heh. Oh baby."

Still no one had noticed Sniper when he'd trudged out of that crowd of screaming mercenaries.

* * *

Moral; don't lend Scout hats.


End file.
